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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


VOLUME   IV 

ITALY   AT    WAR 


The  King  of  Italy  and  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

When  the  Prince  was  on  the  Italian  front,  he  asked  permission  to  visit  a  trench 
which  was  being  heavily  shelled.  The  King  bluntly  refused.  "I  want  no 
historic  incidents  here,"  he  remarked  dryly. 


ITALY   AT  WAR 


AND  THE  ALLIES  IN  THE  WEST 


, 


I  BY 


E^LEXANDER   POWELL 

CORRESPONDENT    OP   THE  "NEW  YORK  WORLD" 
AND    NOW    CAPTAIN    IN    THE    NATIONAL,    ARMY 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1917 


COPYEIGHT,  1917,  BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


AN   ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

FOR  the  assistance  they  have  given  me  in 
the  preparation  of  this  book,  and  for  the 
countless  kindnesses  they  have  shown  me,  I 
am  indebted  to  many  persons  in  many  coun- 
tries. 

His  Excellency  Count  Macchi  di  Cellere, 
Italian  Ambassador  to  the  United  States; 
Signor  Giuseppe  Brambilla,  Counsellor  of 
Embassy;  Signor  A.  G.  Celesia,  Secretary 
of  Embassy;  his  Excellency  Thomas  Nelson 
Page,  American  Ambassador  to  Italy,  and  the 
members  of  his  staff;  Signor  Tittoni,  former 
Italian  Ambassador  to  France;  Signor  de 
Martino,  Chef  du  Cabinet  of  the  Ministry  of 
Foreign  Affairs;  his  Excellency  Signor 
Scialoje,  Minister  of  Education;  Professor 
Andrea  Galante,  Chief  of  the  Bureau  of 
Propaganda;  Colonel  Barberiche  and  Captain 
Pirelli  of  the  Comando  Supremo,  and  Signor 
Ugo  Ojetti,  in  charge  of  works  of  art  in  the 
war  zone,  all  have  my  grateful  thanks  for  the 


vi  AN    ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

exceptional  facilities  afforded  me  for  observa- 
tion on  the  Italian-  front. 

His  Excellency  M.  Jusserand,  French  Am- 
bassador to  the  United  States,  General  Ni- 
velle,  General  Gouraud,  and  General  Dubois; 
Monsieur  Henri  Ponsot,  Chief  of  the  Press 
Bureau,  and  Professor  Georges  Chinard, 
Chief  of  the  Bureau  of  Propaganda  of  the 
Ministry  of  Foreign  Affairs;  Commandant 
Bunau-Varilla  and  the  Marquis  d'Audigne  all 
helped  to  make  this  the  most  interesting  and 
instructive  of  my  many  visits  to  the  French 
front. 

To  General  Jilinsky,  commanding  the  Rus- 
sian forces  in  France,  and  to  Colonel  Roman- 
off, his  Chief  of  Staff,  I  am  grateful  for  the 
courtesies  extended  to  me  while  on  the  Rus- 
sian front  in  Champagne. 

Lord  Northcliffe,  who  on  innumerable  oc- 
casions has  shown  himself  a  friend,  Lord 
Robert  Cecil,  Minister  of  Blockade,  and  Sir 
Theodore  Andrea  Cook,  Editor  of  The  Field, 
put  themselves  to  much  trouble  in  arranging 
for  my  visit  to  the  British  front.  Nor  have 
I  forgotten  the  kindnesses  shown  me  by 
jCaptain  C.  H.  Roberts  and  Lieutenant 


AN    ACKNOWLEDGMENT  vii 

C.  S.  Fraser,  my  hosts  at  General  Head- 
quarters. 

For  the  many  privileges  extended  to  me 
during  my  visit  to  the  Belgian  front  I  take 
this  opportunity  of  thanking  his  Excellency 
Baron  de  Broqueville,  Prime  Minister  of  Bel- 
gium; M.  Emanuel  Havenith,  former  Belgian 
Minister  to  the  United  States,  Lieutenant- 
General  Jacquez,  commanding  the  third  divi- 
sion of  the  Belgian  Army;  Capitaine-Com- 
mandant  Vincotte,  and  Capitaine-Comman- 
dant  Maurice  Le  Due  of  the  Etat-Major. 

To  Lieutenant- Colonel  Spencer  Cosby, 
Corps  of  Engineers,  United  States  Army,  I 
owe  my  thanks  for  much  of  the  technical  in- 
formation contained  in  Chapter  V,  as  he  gen- 
erously placed  at  my  disposal  the  extremely 
valuable  material  which  he  collected  during  his 
three  years  of  service  as  American  Military 
Attache  in  Paris. 

James  Hazen  Hyde,  Esq.,  who  accom- 
panied me  on  my  visit  to  the  Italian  front, 
has,  by  his  hospitality  and  kindness,  placed  me 
under  obligations  which  I  can  never  fully  re- 
pay. I  could  have  had  no  more  charming  or 
cultured  travelling  companion. 


viii  AN    ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

I  also  wish  to  acknowledge  the  information 
and  suggestions  I  have  derived  from  Sydney 
Low's  admirable  book,  "Italy  in  the  War"; 
from  R.  W.  Seton-Watson's  "The  Balkans, 
Italy,  and  the  Adriatic";  from  V.  Gay  da's 
"Modern  Austria";  from  Dr.  E.  J.  Dillon's 
"From  the  Triple  to  the  Quadruple  Alliance"; 
from  Pietro  Fedele's  "Why  Italy  Is  at  War," 
and  from  E.  D.  Ushaw's  "Railways  at  the 
Front." 

And,  finally,  I  desire  to  thank  Howard  E. 
Coffin,  Esq.,  of  the  Advisory  Board  of  the 
Council  of  National  Defence,  for  his  hospi- 
tality on  his  sea  island  of  Sapeloe,  where  most 
of  this  book  was  written. 

E.  ALEXANDER  POWELL. 

WASHINGTON, 
April  fifteenth,  1917. 


TO 
THEIR   EXCELLENCIES 

COUNT  V.  MACCHI  DI   CELLERE,  AMBASSADOR   OF   ITALY, 
AND   JEAN    JULES   JUSSERAND,   AMBASSADOR   OF   FRANCE 

IX  APPRECIATION  OF  THE  MANY 
KINDNESSES  THEY  HAVE  SHOWN 
ME  AND  IN  ADMIRATION  OF  THE 
TACT,  SINCERITY,  AND  ABILITY 
WHICH  HAVE  WON  FOR  THEM, 
AND  FOR  THE  COUNTRIES  THEY 
REPRESENT,  THE  FRIENDSHIP  AND 
CONFIDENCE  OF  ALL  AMERICANS 


ix 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  THE  WAY  TO  THE  WAR 3 

II.  WHY  ITALY  WENT  TO  WAR 87 

III.  FIGHTING  ON  THE  ROOF  OF  EUROPE     ...     68 

IV.  THE  ROAD  TO  TRIESTE 105 

V.  WITH  THE  RUSSIANS  IN  CHAMPAGNE     .    .    .    138 

VI.  "THEY  SHALL  NOT  PASS!" 155 

VII.  "THAT  CONTEMPTIBLE  LITTLE  ARMY"     .    .   204 
VIII.  WITH  THE  BELGIANS  ON  THE  YSER     ....   253 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


The  King  of  Italy  and  the  Prince  of  Wales. Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


The  Teleferica ....>:...  4 

An  Italian  Position  in  the  Carnia     .    .  >:  .  >:  .    .  5 

The  Work  of  the  Hun •.-  .  >:  .:  ..;  .  >  12 

Waiting  for  Big  Game >    .  ...  .    .  13 

An  Air  Raid  (Bombs  Dropping)   .....    .    .    .  20 

An  Air  Raid  (Bombs  Bursting)      ........  21 

The  King  of  Italy  and  General  Cadorna  at  Castel- 

nuovo 32 

The  Peril  in  the  Clouds 33 

The  Carnia 44 

The  Stelvio >:..>....  45 

Alpini  Going  Into  Action  .    .    .    .    .    .    .    <  .  >:  .  68 

On  the  Roof  of  the  World     ....    .    .  -A  x  .    .  69 

Alpini  in  Action .    .    .  76 

Where  Ambulances  Cannot  Go  ......    .    .    •  77 

A  Heavy  Howitzer  in  the  High  Alps  .    .    .    .    .    .  82 

An  Outpost  in  the  Carnia 83 

"Gas!"       144 

French  Field-Gun  Mounted  for  Use  Against  Air- 
craft   145 

xi 


xii  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 

PAGE 


"Halt!  Show  Your  Papers!" 160 

A  Nieuport  Biplane  About  to  Take  the  Air  .  .  .  161 

A  Saucisse  in  the  Snow 170 

The  Eyes  of  the  Guns 171 

Verdun's  Mightiest  Defender:  a  400-mm.  Gun  .  .172 
A  Gun  Painted  to  Escape  the  Observation  of 

Enemy  Airmen 173 

French  Infantry  Attacking  a  German  Position  in 

Champagne 176 

A  French  305  in  Action  on  the  Somme 177 

Australians  on  the  Way  to  the  Trenches 196 

The  Fire  Trench 197 

The  Offensive  on  the  Somme  . 230 

Mud  is  a  Vital  Factor  in  War 231 

"The  Frontier  of  Civilization" 238 

A  British  "Heavy"  Mounted  on  a  Railway-Truck 

Shelling  the  German  Lines 239 

Buried  on  the  Field  of  Honor 240 

The  Trail  of  the  Hun 247 

Flanders 280 

An  Echo  of  the  Longest  Range  Bombardment  in 

History 281 


These  illustrations  are  from  photographs  taken  by  the 
Photographic  Sections  of  the  Italian,  French,  British, 
and  Belgian  armies  and  by  the  author. 


I 

THE    WAY   TO   THE    WAR 

T  \  rHEN  I  told  my  friends  that  I  was  go- 
ing to  the  Italian  front  they  smiled 
disdainfully.  "You  will  only  be  wasting  your 
time,"  one  of  them  warned  me.  "There  isn't 
anything  doing  there,"  said  another.  And 
when  I  came  back  they  greeted  me  with  "You 
didn't  see  much,  did  you?"  and  "What  are  the 
Italians  doing,  anyway?" 

If  I  had  time  I  told  them  that  Italy  is  hold- 
ing a  front  which  is  longer  than  the  French  and 
British  and  Belgian  fronts  combined  (trace  it 
out  on  the  map  and  you  will  find  that  it  meas- 
ures more  than  four  hundred  and  fifty  miles) ; 
that,  alone  among  the  Allies,  she  is  doing  most 
of  her  fighting  on  the  enemy's  soil ;  that  she  is 
fighting  an  army  which  was  fourth  in  Europe 
in  numbers,  third  in  quality,  and  probably  sec- 
ond in  equipment;  that  in  a  single  battle  she 


4  ITALY    AT    WAR      • 

lost  more  men  than  fell  on  both  sides  at  Gettys- 
burg; that  she  has  taken  100,000  prisoners; 
that,  to  oppose  the  Austrian  offensive  in  the 
Trentino,  she  mobilized  a  new  army  of  half  a 
million  men,  completely  equipped  it,  and 
moved  it  to  the  front,  all  in  seven  days;  that, 
were  her  trench  lines  carefully  ironed  but,  they 
would  extend  as  far  as  from  New  York  to  Salt 
Lake  City;  that,  instead  of  digging  these 
trenches,  she  has  had  to  blast  most  of  them 
from  the  solid  rock;  that  she  has  mounted 
8-inch  guns  on  ice-ledges  nearly  two  miles 
above  sea-level,  in  positions  to  which  a  skilled 
mountaineer  would  find  it  perilous  to  climb; 
that  in  places  the  infantry  has  advanced  by 
driving  iron  pegs  and  rings  into  the  perpen- 
dicular walls  of  rock  and  swarming  up  the 
dizzy  ladders  thus  constructed;  that  many  of 
the  positions  can  be  reached  only  in  baskets 
slung  from  sagging  wires  stretched  across  mile- 
deep  chasms;  that  many  of  her  soldiers  are 
living  like  arctic  explorers,  in  caverns  of  ice 
and  snow ;  that  on  the  sun-scorched  floor  of  the 


THE    WAY   TO    THE   WAR  5 

Carso  the  bodies  of  the  dead  have  frequently 
been  found  baked  hard  and  mummified,  while 
in  the  mountains  they  have  been  found  stiff, 
too,  but  stiff  from  cold ;  that  in  the  lowlands  of 
the  Isonzo  the  soldiers  have  fought  in  water  to 
their  waists,  while  the  water  for  the  armies 
fighting  in  the  Trentino  has  had  to  be  brought 
up  from  thousands  of  feet  below ;  and,  most  im- 
portant of  all,  that  she  has  kept  engaged  some 
forty  Austrian  divisions  (about  750,000  men) 
— a  force  sufficient  to  have  turned  the  scale  in 
favor  of  the  Central  Powers  on  any  of  the 
other  fronts.  And  I  have  usually  added: 
"After  what  I  have  seen  over  there,  I  feel  like 
lifting  my  hat,  in  respect  and  admiration,  to> 
the  next  Italian  that  I  see." 

It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  not  one 
American  in  a  thousand  has  any  adequate  con- 
ception of  what  Italy  is  fighting  for,  nor  any 
appreciation  of  the  splendid  part  she  is  play- 
ing in  the  war.  This  lack  of  knowledge,  and 
the  consequent  lack  of  interest,  is,  however, 
primarily  due  to  the  Italians  themselves.  They 


6  ITALY    AT    WAR 

are  suspicious  of  foreigners.  They  are  by 
nature  shy.  More  insular  than  the  French  or 
English,  they  are  only  just  commencing  to 
realize  the  political  value  of  our  national 
maxim :  "It  pays  to  advertise."  Though  they 
want  publicity  they  do  not  know  how  to  get  it. 
Instead  of  welcoming  neutral  correspondents 
and  publicists,  they  have,  until  very  recently, 
met  them  with  suspicion  and  hinderances. 
What  little  news  is  permitted  to  filter  through 
is  coldly  official,  and  is  altogether  unsuited  for 
American  consumption.  The  Italians  are  stag- 
ing one  of  the  most  remarkable  and  inspiring 
performances  that  I  have  seen  on  any  front — 
a  performance  of  which  they  have  every  reason 
to  be  proud — but  diffidence  and  conservatism 
have  deterred  them  from  telling  the  world 
about  it. 

To  visit  Italy  in  these  days  is  no  longer 
merely  a  matter  of  buying  a  ticket  and  board- 
ing a  train.  To  comply  with  the  necessary 
formalities  takes  the  better  part  of  a  week. 
Should  you,  an  American,  wish  to  travel  from 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  7 

Paris  to  Rome,  for  example,  you  must  first  of 
all  obtain  from  the  American  consul-general  a 
special  vise  for  Italy,  together  with  a  statement 
of  the  day  and  hour  on  which  you  intend  to 
leave  Paris,  the  frontier  station  at  which  you 
will  enter  Italy,  and  the  cities  which  you  pro- 
pose visiting.  The  consul-general  will  require 
of  you  three  carte-de-visite  size  photographs. 
Armed  with  your  vised  passport,  you  must  then 
present  yourself  at  the  Italian  Consulate  where 
several  suave  but  very  businesslike  gentlemen 
will  subject  you  to  a  series  of  extremely  search- 
ing questions.  And  you  can  be  perfectly  cer- 
tain that  they  are  in  possession  of  enough  in- 
formation about  you  to  check  up  your  answers. 
Should  it  chance  that  your  grandfather's  name 
was  Schmidt,  or  something  equally  German- 
sounding,  it  is  all  off.  The  Italians,  I  repeat, 
are  a  suspicious  folk,  and  they  are  taking  no 
chances.  Moreover,  unless  you  are  able  to  con- 
vince them  of  the  imperative  necessity  of  your 
visiting  Italy,  you  do  not  go.  Tourists  and 
sensation  seekers  are  not  wanted  in  Italy  in 


8  ITALY    AT    WAR 

these  times;  the  railways  are  needed  for  other 
purposes.  If,  however,  you  succeed  in  satis- 
fying the  board  of  examiners  that  you  are  not 
likely  to  be  either  a  menace  or  a  nuisance,  a 
special  passport  for  the  journey  will  be  issued 
you.  Three  more  photographs,  please.  This 
passport  must  then  be  indorsed  at  the  Prefec- 
ture of  Police.  ( Votre  photographic ,  s'il  vous 
plait. )  Should  you  neglect  to  obtain  the  police 
vise  you  will  not  be  permitted  to  board  the 
train. 

Upon  reaching  the  frontier  you  are  ushered 
before  a  board  composed  of  officials  of  the 
French  Service  de  Surete  and  the  Italian 
Questura  and  again  subjected  to  a  searching 
interrogatory.  Every  piece  of  luggage  in  the 
train  is  unloaded,  opened,  and  carefully  ex- 
amined. It  having  been  discovered  that  spies 
were  accustomed  to  conceal  in  their  compart- 
ments any  papers  which  they  might  be  carry- 
ing, and  retrieving  them  after  the  frontier  was 
safely  passed,  the  through  trains  have  now  been 
discontinued,  passengers  and  luggage,  after  the 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  9 

examination  at  the  frontier,  being  sent  on  by 
another  train.  In  addition  to  the  French  and 
Italian  secret-service  officials,  there  are  now  on 
duty  at  the  various  frontier  stations,  and  like- 
wise in  Athens,  Naples,  and  Rome,  keen-eyed 
young  officers  of  the  "Hush-Hush  Brigade," 
as  the  British  Intelligence  Department  is  dis- 
respectfully called,  whose  business  it  is  to  scru- 
tinize the  thousands  of  British  subjects  — 
officers  returning  from  India,  Egypt,  or  Sa- 
lonika, or  from  service  with  the  Mediterranean 
fleet,  King's  messengers,  diplomatic  couriers — 
who  are  constantly  crossing  Italy  on  their  way 
to  or  from  England. 

That  the  arm  of  the  enemy  is  very  long,  and 
that  it  is  able  to  strike  at  astounding  distances 
and  in  the  most  unexpected  places,  is  brought 
sharply  home  to  one  as  the  train  pulls  out  of 
the  Genoa  station.  From  Genoa  to  Pisa,  a 
distance  of  a  hundred  miles,  the  railway  closely 
hugs  the  Mediterranean  shore.  At  night  all  the 
curtains  on  that  side  of  the  train  must  be  kept 
closely  drawn  and,  as  an  additional  precaution, 


10  ITALY   AT   WAR 

the  white  electric-light  bulbs  in  the  corridors 
and  compartments  have  been  replaced  by  vio- 
let ones.  If  you  ask  the  reason  for  this  you 
are  usually  met  with  evasions.  But,  if  you  per- 
sist, you  learn  that  it  is  done  to  avoid  the 
danger  of  the  trains  being  shelled  by  Austrian 
submarines!  (Imagine,  if  you  please,  the  pas- 
sengers on  the  New  York-Boston  trains  being 
ordered  to  keep  their  windows  darkened  be- 
cause enemy  submarines  have  been  reported  off 
the  coast.)  In  this  war  remoteness  from  the 
firing-line  does  not  assure  safety.  Spezia,  for 
example,  which  is  a  naval  base  of  the  first  im- 
portance, is  separated  from  the  firing-line  by 
the  width  of  the  Italian  peninsula.  Until  a 
few  months  ago  its  inhabitants  felt  as  snug  and 
safe  as  though  they  lived  in  Spain.  Then,  one 
night,  an  Austrian  airman  crossed  the  Alps, 
winged  his  way  above  the  Lombard  plain,  and 
let  loose  on  Spezia  a  rain  of  bombs  which 
caused  many  deaths  and  did  enormous  damage. 
Even  the  casual  traveller  in  Italy  to-day 
cannot  fail  to  be  struck  by  the  prosperity  which 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  11 

the  war  has  brought  to  the  great  manufacturing 
cities  of  the  north  as  contrasted  with  the  com- 
mercial stagnation  which  prevails  in  the  south- 
ern provinces  of  the  kingdom.  In  the  muni- 
tion plants,  most  of  which  are  in  the  north,  are 
employed  upward  of  half  a  million  workers, 
of  whom  75,000  are  women.  Genoa,  Milan, 
and  Turin  are  a-boom  with  industry.  The 
great  automobile  factories  have  expanded 
amazingly  in  order  to  meet  the  demand  for 
shells,  field-guns,  and  motor-trucks.  Turin,  as 
an  officer  smilingly  remarked,  "now  consists  of 
the  Fiat  factory  and  a  few  houses."  The 
United  States  is  not  the  only  country  to  pro- 
duce that  strange  breed  known  as  munitions 
millionaires.  Italy  has  them  also — and  the 
jewellers  and  champagne  agents  are  doing  a 
bigger  business  than  they  have  ever  done 
before. 

As  the  train  tears  southward  into  Tuscany 
you  begin  to  catch  fleeting  glimpses  of  the  men 
who  are  making  possible  this  sudden  prosper- 
ity— the  men  who  are  using  the  motor-trucks 


12  ITALY    AT    WAR 

and  the  shells  and  the  field-guns.  They  don't 
look  very  prosperous  or  very  happy.  Some- 
times you  see  them  drawn  up  on  the  platforms 
of  wayside  stations,  shivering  beneath  their 
scanty  capes  in  the  chill  of  an  Italian  dawn. 
Usually  there  is  a  background  of  wet-eyed 
women,  with  shawls  drawn  over  their  heads, 
and  nearly  always  with  babies  in  their  arms. 
And  on  nearly  every  siding  were  standing  long 
trains  of  box-cars,  bedded  with  straw  and  filled 
with  these  same  wiry,  brown-faced  little  men 
in  their  rat-gray  uniforms,  being  hurried  to  the 
fighting  in  the  north.  It  reminded  me  of  those 
long  cattle-trains  one  sees  in  the  Middle  West, 
bound  for  the  Chicago  slaughter-houses. 

Rome  in  war-time  is  about  as  cheerful  as 
Coney  Island  in  midwinter.  Empty  are  the 
enticing  little  shops  on  the  Piazza  di  Spagna. 
Gone  from  the  marble  steps  are  the  artists' 
models  and  the  flower-girls.  To  visit  the  gal- 
leries of  the  Vatican  is  to  stroll  through  an 
echoing  marble  tomb.  The  guards  and  cus- 
todians no  longer  welcome  you  for  the  sake  of 


The  Work  of  the  Hun. 

The  Chiesa  degli  Scalzi,  in  Venice,  whose  ceiling,  by  Tiepolo,  was  one  of  the 
master's  greatest  works,  has  suffered  irreparable  injury  from  a  bomb  dropped  by 
an  Austrian  airman. 


e   I 

nS       » 

o  g 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  13 

your  tips,  but  for  the  sake  of  your  company. 
The  Bang,  who  is  with  the  army,  visits  Rome 
only  rarely;  the  Queen  occupies  a  modest  villa 
in  the  country;  the  Palace  of  the  Quirinal  has 
been  turned  into  a  hospital.  The  great  ball- 
room, the  state  dining-room,  the  throne-room, 
even  the  Queen's  sun-parlor,  are  now  filled 
with  white  cots,  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
them,  each  with  its  bandaged  occupant,  while 
in  the  famous  gardens  where  Popes  and  Em- 
perors and  Kings  have  strolled,  convalescent 
soldiers  now  laze  in  the  sun  or  on  the  gravelled 
paths  play  at  bowls.  In  giving  up  their  home 
for  the  use  of  the  wounded,  the  King  and 
Queen  have  done  a  very  generous  and  noble 
thing,  and  the  Italian  people  are  not  going  to 
forget  it. 

If  Rome,  which  is  the  seat  of  government, 
shows  such  unmistakable  signs  of  depression, 
imagine  the  stagnation  of  Florence,  which  has 
long  been  as  dependent  upon  its  crop  of  tour- 
ists as  a  Dakota  farmer  is  upon  his  crop  of 
wheat.  The  Cascine  Gardens,  in  the  old  days 


14  ITALY    AT    WAR 

one  of  the  gayest  promenades  in  Europe,  are 
as  lonely  as  a  cemetery.  At  those  hotels  on  the 
Lung'  Arno,  which  remain  open,  the  visitor 
can  make  his  own  terms.  The  Via  Tornabuoni 
is  as  quiet  as  a  street  in  a  country  town.  The 
dealers  in  antiques,  in  souvenirs,  in  pictures,  in 
marbles,  have  most  of  them  put  up  their  shut- 
ters and  disappeared,  to  return,  no  doubt,  in 
happier  times. 

There  is  in  the  Via  Tornabuoni,  midway  be- 
tween Giacosa's  and  the  American  Consulate, 
an  excellent  barber  shop.  The  owner,  who 
learned  his  trade  in  the  United  States,  is  the 
most  skilful  man  with  scissors  and  razor  that 
I  know.  His  customers  came  from  half  the 
countries  of  the  globe. 

"But  they  are  all  gone  now,"  he  told  me 
sadly.  "Some  are  fighting,  some  have  been 
killed,  the  others  have  gone,  back  to  their  homes 
until  the  war  is  over.  Three  years  ago  I  had 
as  nice  a  little  business  as  a  man  could  ask 
for.  To-day  I  do  not  make  enough  to  pay  my 
rent.  But  it  doesn't  make  much  difference,  for 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  15 

next  month  my  class  is  called  to  the  colors, 
and  in  the  spring  my  son,  who  will  then  be 
eighteen,  will  also  have  to  go." 

No,  they're  not  very  enthusiastic  over  the 
war  in  Florence.  But  you  can't  blame  them, 
can  you? 

In  none  of  the  great  cities  known  and  loved 
by  Americans  has  the  war  wrought  such  start- 
ling changes  as  in  Venice.  Because  it  is  a 
naval  base  of  the  first  importance,  because  it 
is  almost  within  sight  of  the  Austrian  coast, 
and  therefore  within  easy  striking  distance  of 
Trieste,  Fiume,  and  Pola,  and  because  through- 
out Venetia  Austrian  spies  abound,  Venice  is  a 
closed  city.  It  reminded  me  of  a  beautiful 
playhouse  which  had  been  closed  for  an  indef- 
inite period:  the  fire-curtain  lowered,  the  linen 
covers  drawn  over  the  seats,  the  carpets  rolled 
up,  the  scenery  stored  away,  the  great  stage 
empty  and  desolate.  Gone  are  the  lights,  the 
music,  the  merriment  which  made  Venice  one 
of  the  happiest  and  most  care  free  of  cities. 


16  ITALY    AT    WAR 

Because  of  the  frequent  air  raids — Venice  has 
been  attacked  from  the  sky  nearly  a  hundred 
times  since  the  war  began — the  city  is  put  to 
bed  promptly  at  nightfall.  To  show  a  light 
from  a  door  or  window  after  dark  is  to  invite  a 
domiciliary  visit  from  the  police  and,  quite 
possibly,  arrest  on  the  charge  of  attempting  to 
communicate  with  the  enemy.  The  illumina- 
tion of  the  streets  is  confined  to  small  candle- 
power  lights  in  blue  or  purple  bulbs,  the  weak- 
ened rays  being  visible  for  only  a  short  distance. 
To  stroll  at  night  in  the  darkened  streets  is 
to  risk  falling  into  a  canal,  while  the  use  of  an 
electric  torch  would  almost  certainly  result  in 
arrest  as  a  spy.  The  ghastly  effect  produced 
by  the  purple  lights,  the  utter  blackness  of  the 
canals,  the  deathly  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
sound  of  water  lapping  the  walls  of  the  empty 
palazzos,  combine  to  give  the  city  a  peculiarly 
weird  and  sepulchral  appearance. 

Of  the  great  hotels  which  line  the  Canale 
Grande,  only  the  Danieli  remains  open.  Over 
the  others  fly  the  Red  Cross  flags,  and  in  their 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  IT 

windows  and  on  their  terraces  lounge  wounded 
soldiers.  The  smoking-room  of  the  Danieli, 
where  so  many  generations  of  travelling  Ameri- 
cans have  chatted  over  their  coffee  and  cigars, 
has  been  converted  into  a  rifugio,  in  which  the 
guests  can  find  shelter  in  case  of  an  air  attack. 
A  bomb-proof  ceiling  has  been  made  of  two 
layers  of  steel  rails,  laid  crosswise,  and  ram- 
parts of  sand-bags  have  been  built  against  the 
walls.  On  the  doors  of  the  bedrooms  are  posted 
notices  urging  the  guests,  when  hostile  aircraft 
are  reported,  to  make  directly  for  the  rifugio, 
and  remain  there  until  the  raid  is  over.  In 
other  cities  in  the  war  zone  the  inhabitants 
take  to  their  cellars  during  aerial  attacks,  but 
in  Venice  there  are  no  cellars,  and  the  buildings 
are,  for  the  most  part,  too  old  and  poorly  built 
to  afford  safety  from  bombs.  To  provide  ade- 
quate protection  for  the  population,  particu- 
larly in  the  poorer  and  more  congested  districts 
of  the  city,  has,  therefore,  proved  a  serious 
problem  for  the  authorities.  Owing  to  its  sit- 
uation, Venice  is  extremely  vulnerable  to  air 


18  ITALY    AT    WAR 

attacks,  for  the  Austrian  seaplanes,  operating 
from  Trieste  or  Pola,  can  glide  across  the 
Adriatic  under  cover  of  darkness,  and  are  over 
the  city  before  their  presence  is  discovered. 
Before  the  anti-aircraft  guns  can  get  their 
range,  or  the  Italian  airmen  can  rise  and  en- 
gage them,  they  have  dropped  their  bombs  and 
fled.  Although,  generally  speaking,  the  loss 
of  life  resulting  from  these  aerial  forays  is  sur- 
prising small,  they  are  occasionally  very  serious 
affairs.  During  an  air  raid  on  Padua,  which 
occurred  a  few  days  before  I  was  there,  a  bomb 
exploded  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  terrified 
townspeople  who  were  struggling  to  gain  en- 
trance to  a  rifugio.  In  that  affair  153  men, 
women,  and  children  lost  their  lives. 

The  admiral  in  command  of  Venice  showed 
me  a  map  of  the  city,  which,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  large  rectangle,  was  thickly  sprinkled 
with  small  red  dots.  There  must  have  been 
several  hundred  of  them. 

"These  dots,"  he  explained,  "indicate  where 
Austrian  bombs  have  fallen." 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  19 

"This  part  of  the  city  seems  to  have  been 
peculiarly  fortunate,"  I  remarked,  placing  my 
finger  on  the  white  square. 

"That,"  said  he,  "is  the  Arsenal.  For  obvi- 
ous reasons  we  do  not  reveal  whether  any 
bombs  have  fallen  there." 

Considering  the  frequency  with  which  Venice 
has  been  attacked  from^he  air,  its  churches, 
of  which  there  are  an  extraordinary  number, 
have  escaped  with  comparatively  little  damage. 
Only  four,  in  fact,  have  suffered  seriously.  Of 
these,  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  Formosa  has 
sustained  the  greatest  damage,  its  magnificent 
interior,  with  the  celebrated  decorations  by 
Palma  Vecchio,  having  been  transformed 
through  the  agency  of  an  Austrian  bomb,  into 
a  heap  of  stone  and  plaster.  Another  bomb 
chose  as  its  target  the  great  dome  of  the  church 
of  San  Pietro  di  Castello,  which  stands  on  the 
island  of  San  Pietro,  opposite  the  Arsenal.  On 
the  Grand  Canal,  close  by  the  railway-station, 
is  the  Chiesa  degli  Scalzi,  whose  ceiling  by 
Tiepolo,  one  of  the  master's  greatest  works,  has 


20  ITALY    AT    WAR 

suffered  irreparable  injury.  Santi  Giovanni  e 
Paolo,  next  to  St.  Mark's  the  most  famous 
church  in  Venice,  has  also  been  shattered  by  a 
bomb. 

I  asked  the  officer  in  command  of  the  aerial 
defenses  of  Venice  if  he  thought  that  the  Aus- 
trian airmen  intentionally  bomb  churches,  hos- 
pitals, and  monuments,  as  has  been  so  often 
asserted  in  the  Allied  press. 

"It's  this  way,"  he  explained.  "A  dozen 
aviators  are  ordered  to  bombard  a  certain  city. 
Three  or  four  of  them  are  real  heroes  and,  at 
the  risk  of  their  lives,  descend  low  enough  to 
make  certain  of  their  targets  before  releasing 
their  bombs.  The  others,  however,  rather  than 
come  within  range  of  the  anti-aircraft  guns, 
remain  at  a  safe  height,  drop  their  bombs  at 
random  as  soon  as  they  are  over  the  city,  and 
then  clear  out.  Is  it  very  surprising,  then,  that 
bombs  dropped  from  a  height  of  perhaps  ten 
thousand  feet,  by  aircraft  travelling  sixty  miles 
an  hour,  miss  the  forts  and  barracks  for  which 


12  "S 

CS  C;H 

u  l| 

"3  .1-  fe 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  21 

they  are  intended  and  hit  churches  and  dwell- 
ings instead?" 

Intentional  or  not,  the  bombardment  of  the 
Venetian  churches  is  a  blunder  for  which  the 
Austrians  will  pay  dearly  in  loss  of  interna- 
tional good-will.  A  century  hence  these  shat- 
tered churches  will  be  pointed  out  to  visitors  as 
the  work  of  the  modern  Vandals,  and  lovers  of 
art  and  beauty  throughout  the  world  will  ex- 
ecrate the  nation  which  permitted  the  sacrilege. 
They  have  destroyed  glass  and  paintings  and 
sculptures  that  were  a  joy  to  the  whole  world, 
they  have  undone  the  work  of  saints  and  heroes 
and  masters,  and  they  have  gained  no  corre- 
sponding military  advantage.  In  every  city 
which  has  been  subjected  to  air  raids  the  in- 
habitants have  been  made  more  obstinate,  more 
iron-hard  in  their  determination  to  keep  on 
righting.  The  sight  of  shattered  churches,  of 
wrecked  dwellings,  of  mangled  women  and 
dead  babies,  does  not  terrify  or  dismay  a 
people:  it  infuriates  them.  In  the  words  of 


22  ITALY    AT    WAR 

Talleyrand:  "It  is  worse  than  a  crime;  it  is  a 
mistake." 

The  strangest  sight  in  Venice  to-day  is  St. 
Mark's.  There  is  nothing  in  its  present  ap- 
pearance, inside  or  out,  to  suggest  the  famous 
cathedral  which  so  many  millions  of  people 
have  reverenced  and  loved.  Indeed,  there  is 
little  about  it  to  suggest  a  church  at  all.  It 
looks  like  a  huge  and  ugly  warehouse,  like  a 
car  barn,  like  a  Billy  Sunday  tabernacle,  for, 
in  order  to  protect  the  wonderful  mosaics  and 
marbles  which  adorn  the  church's  western 
fa9ade,  it  has  been  sheathed,  from  ground  to 
roof,  with  unpainted  planks,  and  these,  in  turn, 
have  been  covered  with  great  squares  of  asbes- 
tos. By  this  use  of  fire-proof  material  it  is 
hoped  that,  even  should  the  church  be  hit  by 
a  bomb,  there  may  be  averted  a  fire  such  as 
did  irreparable  damage  to  the  Cathedral  of 
Rheims. 

The  famous  bronze  horses  have  been  removed 
from  their  place  over  the  main  portal  of  St. 
Mark's,  and  taken,  I  believe,  to  Florence.  It 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  23 

is  not  the  first  travelling  that  they  have  done, 
for  from  the  triumphal  arch  of  Nero  they  once 
looked  down  on  ancient  Rome.  Constantine 
sent  them  to  adorn  the  imperial  hippodrome 
which  he  built  in  Constantinople,  whence  the 
Doge  Dandolo  brought  them  as  spoils  of  war 
to  Venice  when  the  thirteenth  century  was  still 
young.  In  1797  Napoleon  carried  them  to 
Paris,  but  after  the  downfall  of  the  Emperor 
they  were  brought  back  to  Venice  by  the  Aus- 
trians  and  restored  to  their  ancient  position. 
There  they  remained  for  just  a  hundred  years, 
until  the  menace  of  the  Austrian  aircraft  neces- 
sitated their  hasty  removal  to  a  place  of  safety. 
Of  them  one  of  Napoleon's  generals  is  said  to 
have  remarked  disparagingly:  "They  are  too 
coarse  in  the  limbs  for  cavalry  use,  and  too 
light  for  the  guns."  In  any  event,  they  were 
the  only  four  horses,  alive  or  dead,  in  the  whole 
city,  and  the  Venetians  love  them  as  though 
they  were  their  children. 

If  in  its  war  dress  the  exterior  of  St.  Mark's 
presents  a  strange  appearance,  the  transf orma- 


24  ITALY    AT    WAR 

tion  of  the  interior  is  positively  startling. 
Nothing  that  ingenuity  can  suggest  has  been 
left  undone  to  protect  the  sculptures,  mosaics, 
glass,  and  marbles  which,  brought  by  the  sea- 
faring Venetians  from  the  four  corners  of  the 
globe,  make  St.  Mark's  the  most  beautiful  of 
churches.  Everything  portable  has  been  re- 
moved to  a  place  of  safety,  but  the  famous 
mosaics,  the  ancient  windows,  and  the  splendid 
carvings  it  is  impossible  to  remove,  and  they 
are  the  most  precious  of  all!  The  two  pulpits 
of  colored  marbles  and  the  celebrated  screen 
with  its  carven  figures  are  now  hidden  beneath 
pyramids  of  sand-bags.  The  spiral  columns  of 
translucent  alabaster  which  support  the  altar, 
are  padded  with  excelsior  and  wrapped  with 
canvas.  Swinging  curtains  of  quilted  burlap 
protect  the  walls  of  the  chapels  and  transepts 
from  flying  shell  fragments.  Yet  all  these  pre- 
cautions would  probably  avail  but  little  were  a 
bomb  to  strike  St.  Mark's.  In  the  destruction 
that  would  almost  certainly  result  there  would 
perish  mosaics  and  sculptures  which  were  in 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  25 

their  present  places  when  Vienna  was  still  a 
Swabian  village,  and  Berlin  had  yet  to  be 
founded  on  the  plain  above  the  Spree. 

If  it  has  proved  difficult  to  protect  from 
airplane  fire  the  massive  basilica  of  St.  Mark's, 
consider  the  problem  presented  to  the  authori- 
ties by  the  Palace  of  the  Doges,  that  creation 
of  fairylike  loveliness,  whose  exquisite  fa9ades, 
with  their  delicate  window  tracery  and  fragile 
carvings,  would  be  irretrievably  ruined  by  a 
well-aimed  bomb.  In  order  to  avert  such  a 
disaster,  it  was  proposed  to  protect  the  f  a9ades 
of  the  palace  by  enclosing  the  building  in  tem- 
porary walls  of  masonry.  It  was  found,  how- 
ever, that  this  plan  was  not  feasible,  as  the  en- 
gineers reported  that  the  piles  on  which  the 
ancient  building  is  poised  would  submerge  if 
subjected  to  such  an  additional  weight.  All 
that  they  have  been  able  to  do,  therefore,  is  to 
shore  up  the  arches  of  the  loggia  with  beams, 
fill  up  the  windows  with  brick  and  plaster,  and 
pray  to  the  patron  saint  of  Venice  to  save  the 
city's  most  exquisite  structure. 


26  ITALY    AT    WAR 

The  gilded  figure  of  an  angel,  which  for  so 
many  centuries  has  looked  down  on  Venice 
from  the  summit  of  the  Campanile,  has  been 
given  a  dress  of  battleship  gray  that  it  may  not 
serve  as  a  landmark  for  the  Austrian  aviators. 
Over  the  celebrated  equestrian  statue  of  Col- 
leoni — of  which  Ruskin  said:  "I  do  not  believe 
there  is  a  more  glorious  work  of  sculpture  ex- 
isting in  the  world" — has  been  erected  a  titanic 
armored  sentry-box,  which  is  covered,  in  turn, 
with  layer  upon  layer  of  sand-bags.  Could  the 
spirit  of  that  great  soldier  of  fortune  be  con- 
sulted, however,  I  rather  fancy  that  he  would 
insist  upon  sitting  his  bronze  warhorse,  unpro- 
tected and  unafraid,  facing  the  bombs  of  the 
Austrian  airmen  just  as  he  used  to  face  the 
bolts  of  the  Austrian  crossbowmen. 

The  commercial  life  of  Venice  is  virtually  at 
a  standstill.  Most  of  the  glass  and  lace  manu- 
factories have  been  forced  to  shut  down.  The 
dealers  in  curios  and  antiques  lounge  idly  in 
their  doorways,  deeming  themselves  fortunate 
if  they  make  a  sale  a  month.  All  save  one  or 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  27 

two  of  the  great  hotels  which  have  not  been 
taken  over  by  the  Government  for  hospitals 
have  had  to  close  their  doors.  The  hordes  of 
guides  and  boatmen  and  waiters  who  depended 
for  their  living  upon  the  tourists  are — such  of 
them  as  have  not  been  called  to  the  colors — 
without  work  and  in  desperate  need.  In  nor- 
mal times  a  quarter  of  Venice's  150,000  inhabi- 
tants are  paupers,  and  this  percentage  must 
have  enormously  increased,  for,  notwithstand- 
ing the  relief  measures  which  the  Government 
has  taken,  unemployment  is  general,  the  prices 
of  food  are  constantly  increasing,  and  coal  has 
become  almost  impossible  to  obtain.  Fishing, 
which  was  one  of  the  city's  chief  industries,  is 
now  an  exceedingly  hazardous  employment  be- 
cause of  submarines  and  floating  mines.  Save 
for  the  clumsy  craft  of  commerce,  the  gondolas 
have  largely  disappeared,  and  with  them  has 
disappeared,  only  temporarily,  let  us  hope,  the 
most  picturesque  feature  of  Venetian  life. 
They  have  been  driven  off  by  the  slim,  polished, 
cigar-shaped  power-boats,  which  tear  madly  up 


28  ITALY    AT    WAR 

and  down  and  crossways  of  the  canals  in  the 
service,  of  the  military  government  and  of  the 
fleet.  To  use  a  gondola,  particularly  at  night, 
is  as  dangerous  as  it  would  be  to  drive  upon  a 
motor  race-course  with  a  horse  and  buggy,  for, 
as  no  lights  are  permitted,  one  is  in  constant 
peril  of  being  run  down  by  the  recklessly  driven 
power  craft,  whose  wash,  by  the  way,  is  seri- 
ously affecting  the  foundations  of  many  of  the 
palazzos. 

It  is  an  unfamiliar,  gloomy,  mysterious  place, 
is  war-time  Venice,  but  in  certain  respects  I 
liked  it  better  than  the  commercialized  city  of 
antebellum  days.  Gone  are  the  droves  of 
loud-voiced  tourists,  gone  the  impudent  boat- 
men, the  importunate  beggars,  the  impertinent 
guides,  gone  the  glare  of  lights  and  the  blare  of 
cheap  music.  No  longer  do  the  lantern-strung 
barges  of  the  musicians  gather  nightly  off  the 
Molo.  No  longer  across  the  waters  float  the 
strains  of  "Addio  di  Napoli"  and  "Ciri-Biri- 
Bi";  the  Canale  Grande  is  dark  and  silent 
now.  The  tourist  hostelries,  on  whose  terraces 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  29 

at  night  gleamed  the  white  shirt-fronts  of 
men  and  the  white  shoulders  of  women,  now 
have  as  their  only  guests  the  white-bandaged 
wounded.  In  its  darkness,  its  mystery,  its 
silence,  it  is  once  again  the  Venice  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  the  Venice  of  lovers  and  conspirators,  of 
inquisitors  and  assassins,  the  Venice  of  which 
Shakespeare  sang. 

But  with  the  coming  of  dawn  the  Venice  of 
the  twelfth  century  is  abruptly  transformed 
into  the  Venice  of  the  twentieth.  The  sun, 
rising  out  of  the  Adriatic,  turns  into  ellipsoids 
of  silver  the  aluminum-colored  observation 
balloons  which  form  the  city's  first  line  of  aerial 
defense.  As  the  sun  climbs  higher  it  brings 
into  bold  relief  the  lean  barrels  of  the  anti- 
aircraft guns,  which,  from  the  roofs  of  the 
buildings  to  the  seaward,  sweep  the  eastern 
sky.  Abreast  the  Public  Gardens  the  great 
war-ships,  in  their  coats  of  elephant-gray,  swing 
lazily  at  their  moorings.  Near  the  Punta  della 
Motta  lie  the  destroyers,  like  greyhounds  held 
in  leash.  Off  the  Riva  Schiavoni,  on  the  very 


30  ITALY    AT    WAR 

spot,  no  doubt,  where  Dandolo's  war-galleys 
lay,  are  anchored  the  British  submarines. 
And  atop  his  granite  column,  a  link  with  the 
city' s  glorious  and  warlike  past,  still  stands  the 
winged  lion  of  St.  Mark,  snarling  a  perpetual 
challenge  at  his  ancient  enemy — Austria. 

The  Comando  Supremo,  or  Great  Head- 
quarters, of  the  Italian  army  is  at  Udine,  an 
ancient  Venetian  town  some  twenty  miles  from 
the  Austrian  frontier.  This  is  supposed  to  be 
a  great  secret,  and  must  not  be  mentioned  in 
letters  or  newspaper  despatches,  it  being  as- 
sumed that,  were  the  Austrians  to  learn  of  the 
presence  in  Udine  of  the  Comando  Supremo, 
their  airmen  would  pay  inconvenient  visits  to 
the  town,  and  from  the  clouds  would  drop  their 
steel  calling-cards  on  the  King  and  General 
Cadorna.  So,  though  every  one  in  Italy  is  per- 
fectly aware  that  the  head  of  the  Government 
and  the  head  of  the  army  are  at  Udine,  the  fact 
is  never  mentioned  in  print.  To  believe  that 
the  Austrians  are  ignorant  of  the  whereabouts 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  81 

of  the  Italian  high  command  is  to  severely; 
strain  one's  credulity.  The  Italians  not  only 
know  where  the  Austrian  headquarters  is  situ- 
ated, but  they  know  in  which  houses  the  various 
generals  live,  and  the  restaurants  in  which  they 
eat.  This  extreme  reticence  of  the  Italians 
seems  a  little  irksome  and  overdone  after  the 
frankness  one  encounters  on  the  French  and 
British  fronts,  but  it  is  due,  no  doubt,  to  the 
admonitions  which  are  posted  in  hotels,  restau- 
rants, stations,  and  railway  carriages  through- 
out Italy:  "It  is  the  patriotic  duty  of  good 
citizens  not  to  question  the  military  about  the 
war,"  and  :  "The  military  are  warned  not  to 
discuss  the  war  with  civilians.  An  indiscreet 
friend  can  be  as  dangerous  as  an  enemy." 

My  previous  acquaintance  with  Udine  had 
been  confined  to  fleeting  glimpses  of  it  from  the 
windows  of  the  Vienna-Cannes  express.  Be- 
fore the  war  it  was,  like  the  other  towns  which 
dot  the  Venetian  plain,  a  quaint,  sleepy,  easy- 
going place,  dwelling  in  the  memories  of  its 
past,  but  with  the  declaration  of  hostilities  it 


32  ITALY    AT    WAR 

suddenly  became  one  of  the  busiest  and  most 
important  places  in  all  Italy.  From  his  desk 
in  the  Prefecture,  General  Cadorna,  a  short, 
wiry,  quick-moving  man  in  the  middle  sixties, 
with  a  face  as  hard  and  brown  as  a  hickory- 
nut,  directs  the  operations  of  the  armies  along 
that  four-hundred-and-fifty-mile-long  battle- 
line  which  stretches  from  the  Stelvio  to  the 
sea.  The  cobble-paved  streets  and  the  vaulted 
arcades  are  gay  with  many  uniforms,  for, 
in  addition  to  the  hundreds  of  staff  and  di- 
visional officers  quartered  in  Udine,  the  French, 
British,  Russian,  and  Belgian  Governments 
maintain  there  military  missions,  whose  busi- 
ness it  is  to  keep  the  staffs  of  their  respec- 
tive armies  constantly  in  touch  with  the  Italian 
high  command,  thus  securing  practical  co- 
operation. In  a  modest  villa,  a  short  distance 
outside  the  town,  dwells  the  King,  who  has 
been  on  the  front  almost  constantly  since  the 
war  began.  Although,  as  ruler  of  the  kingdom, 
he  is  commander-in-chief  of  the  Italian  armies, 
he  rarely  gives  advice  unless  it  is  asked  for, 


.j  The  King  of  Italy  and  General  Cadorna  at  Castelnuovo. 

Scarcely  a  day  passes  that  the  King  does  not  visit  some  sector  of  the  battle- 
line,  but  he  rarely  gives  advice  unless  it  is  asked  for,  and  never.interferes  with 
the  decisions  of  the  Comando  Supremo. 


a     2 

—    a 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  33 

and  never  interferes  with  the  decisions  of  the 
Comando  Supremo.  Scarcely  a  day  passes  that 
he  does  not  visit  some  sector  of  the  battle-line. 
Officers  and  men  in  some  of  the  lonely  moun- 
tain commands  told  me  that  the  only  general 
who  has  visited  them  is  the  King.  Should  he 
venture  into  exposed  positions,  as  he  frequently 
does,  he  is  halted  by  the  local  command.  It  is, 
of  course,  tactfully  done.  "I  am  responsible 
for  your  Majesty's  safety,"  says  the  officer. 
"Were  there  to  be  an  accident  I  should  be 
blamed."  Whereupon  the  King  promptly 
withdraws.  If  he  is  not  permitted  to  take  un- 
necessary risks  himself,  neither  will  he  permit 
others.  When  the  Prince  of  Wales  visited  the 
Italian  front  last  summer,  he  asked  permission 
to  enter  a  certain  first-line  trench,  which  was 
being  heavily  shelled.  The  King  bluntly  re- 
fused. "I  want  no  historic  incidents  here,"  he 
remarked  dryly. 

To  obtain  a  room  in  Udine  is  as  difficult  as 
it  is  to  obtain  hotel  accommodation  in  New 
York  during  the  Automobile  Show.  But,  be- 


34.  ITALY    AT    WAR 

cause  I  was  a  guest  of  the  Government,  I  found 
that  a  room  had  been  reserved  for  me  by  the 
Comando  Supremo  at  the  Hotel  Croce  di 
Malta.  I  was  told  that  since  the  war  three 
proprietors  of  this  hotel  had  made  their  for- 
tunes and  retired,  and  after  I  received  my  bill 
I  believed  it.  There  was  in  my  room  one  of 
those  inhospitable,  box-shaped  porcelain  stoves 
so  common  in  North  Italy  and  the  Tyrol.  To 
keep  a  modest  wood-fire  going  in  that  stove 
cost  me  exactly  thirty  lire  (about  six  dollars) 
a  day.  But  a  fire  was  a  necessity.  Luxuries 
came  higher.  Yet  the  scene  in  the  hotel's  shabby 
restaurant  at  the  dinner-hour  was  well  worth 
the  fantastic  charges,  for  there  gathered  there 
nightly  as  interesting  a  company  as  I  have  not 
often  seen  under  one  roof:  a  poet  and  novelist 
who  has  given  to  Italy  the  most  important  lit- 
erary work  since  the  days  of  the  great  classics, 
and  who,  by  his  fiery  and  impassioned  speeches, 
did  more  than  any  single  person  to  force  the 
nation's  entrance  into  the  war;  an  American 
dental  surgeon  who  abandoned  an  enormously 


THE    WAY    TO    THE    WAR  35 

lucratire  practice  in  Rome  to  establish  at  the 
front  a  hospital  where  he  has  performed  feats 
approaching  the  magical  in  rebuilding  shrap- 
nel-shattered faces;  a  Florentine  connoisseur, 
probably  the  greatest  living  authority  on  Ital- 
ian art,  who  has  been  commissioned  with  the  t 
preservation  of  all  the  works  of  art  in  the  war 
zone;  an  English  countess  who  is  in  charge  of 
an  X-ray  car  which  operates  within  range  of 
the  Austrian  guns;  a  young  Roman  noble 
whom  I  had  last  seen,  in  pink,  in  the  hunting- 
field,  a  group  of  khaki-clad  officers  from  the 
British  mission,  cold  and  aloof  of  manner  de- 
spite their  being  among  allies ;  a  party  of  Rus- 
sians, their  hair  clipped  to  the  skull,  their  green 
tunics  sprinkled  with  stars  and  crosses;  half  a 
dozen  French  military  attaches  in  beautifully 
cut  uniforms  of  horizon-blue ;  and  Italian  offi- 
cers, animated  and  gesticulative,  on  whose 
breasts  were  medal  ribbons  showing  that  they 
had  fought  in  forgotten  wars  in  forgotten 
earners  of  Africa.  At  one  table  they  were 
discussing  the  probable  date  of  some  Roman 


36  ITALY   AT   WAR 

remains  which  had  just  been  unearthed  at 
Aquileia ;  at  another  an  argument  was  in  prog- 
ress over  the  merits  of  vers  tibre;  one  of  the 
Russians  was  explaining  a  new  system  he  had 
evolved  for  breaking  the  bank  at  Monte  Carlo ; 
the  young  English  countess  was  retailing  the 
latest  jokes  from  the  London  music-halls,  but 
nowhere  did  I  hear  mentioned  the  grim  and 
bloody  business  which  had  brought  us,  of  so 
many  minds  and  from  so  many  lands,  to  this 
shabby,  smoke-filled,  garlic-scented  room  in  this 
little  frontier  town.  Yet,  had  the  door  been 
opened,  and  had  we  stilled  our  voices,  we  could 
have  heard,  quite  plainly,  the  sullen  grumble  of 
the  cannon. 


II 

WHY    ITALY   WENT   TO   WAR 

/"  I  ^O  understand  why  Italy  is  at  war  you  have 
•*•  only  to  look  at  the  map  of  Central  Europe. 
You  can  hardly  fail  to  be  struck  by  the  curious 
resemblance  which  the  outline  of  the  Austro- 
Hungarian  Empire  bears  to  a  monstrous  bird 
of  prey  hovering  threateningly  over  Italy.  The 
body  of  the  bird  is  formed  by  Hungary;  Bo- 
hemia is  the  right  wing,  Bosnia  and  Dalmatia 
constitute  the  left;  the  Tyrol  represents  the 
head,  while  the  savage  beak,  with  its  open  jaws, 
is  formed  by  that  portion  of  the  Tyrol  com- 
monly known  as  the  Trentino.  And  that  sav- 
age beak,  you  will  note,  is  buried  deep  in  the 
shoulder  of  Italy,  holding  between  its  jaws, 
as  it  were,  the  Lake  of  Garda.  To  continue 
the  simile,  it  will  be  seen  that  the  talons  of  the 
bird,  formed  by  the  Istrian  Peninsula,  reach 

out  over  the  Adriatic  in  threatening  proximity; 

37 


38  ITALY    AT    WAR 

to  Venice  and  the  other  Italian  coast  towns. 
It  is  to  end  the  intolerable  menace  of  that  beak 
and  those  claws  that  Italy  is  fighting.  There 
you  have  it  in  a  nutshell. 

Just  as  in  France,  since  1870,  the  national 
watchword  has  been  "Alsace-Lorraine,"  so  in 


GERMAN 


Italy,  for  upward  of  half  a  century,  the  popular 
cry  has  been  " Italia  Irredenta" — Italy  Unre- 
deemed. It  was  a  deep  and  bitter  disappoint- 
ment to  all  Italians  that,  upon  the  formation 
in  1866  of  the  present  kingdom,  there  should 
have  been  left  under  Austrian  dominion  two 
regions  which,  in  population,  in  language,  and 


WHY    ITALY    WENT    TO    WAR         39 

in  sentiment,  were  essentially  Italian.  These 
"unredeemed"  regions  were  generally  called 
after  their  respective  capital  cities:  Trent  and 
Trieste.  But,  though  the  phrase  Italia  Irre- 
denta was  originally  interpreted  as  referring 
only  to  the  Trentino  and  Trieste,  it  has  grad- 
ually assumed,  in  the  course  of  years,  a  broader 
significance,  until  now  it  includes  all  that  por- 
tion of  the  Tyrol  lying  south  of  the  Brenner, 
the  Carso  plateau,  Trieste  and  its  immediate 
hinterland,  the  entire  Istrian  Peninsula,  the 
Hungarian  port  of  Fiume,  and  the  whole  of 
Dalmatia  and  Albania.  In  other  words,  the 
Irredentists  of  to-day — and,  since  Italy  entered 
the  war,  virtually  the  entire  nation  has  sub- 
scribed to  Irredentist  aims  and  ideals — dream 
of  an  Italy  whose  northern  frontier  shall  be 
formed  by  the  main  chain  of  the  Alps,  and 
whose  rule  shall  be  extended  over  the  entire 
eastern  shore  of  the  Adriatic. 

In  order  to  intelligently  understand  the  Ital- 
ian view-point,  suppose  that  we  imagine  our- 
selves in  an  analogous  position.  For  this  pur- 


40  ITALY    AT    WAR 

pose  you  must  picture  Canada  as  a  highly 
organized  military  Power,  its  policies  directed 
by  an  aggressive,  predacious  and  unscrupulous 
government,  and  with  a  population  larger  than 
that  of  the  United  States.  You  will  conceive 
of  the  State  of  Vermont  as  a  Canadian  prov- 
ince under  military  control:  a  wedge  driven 
into  the  heart  of  manufacturing  New  England, 
and  threatening  the  teeming  valleys  of  the  Con- 
necticut and  the  Hudson.  You  must  imagine 
this  province  of  Vermont  as  overrun  by  Ca- 
nadian soldiery;  as  crisscrossed  by  military 
roads  and  strategic  railways;  its  hills  and 
mountains  abristle  with  forts  whose  guns  are 
turned  United  Statesward.  The  inhabitants  of 
the  province,  though  American  in  descent,  in 
traditions,  and  in  ideals,  are  oppressed  by  a 
harsh  and  tyrannical  military  rule.  With  the 
exception  of  a  single  trunk-line,  there  are  no 
railways  crossing  the  frontier.  Commercial 
intercourse  with  the  United  States  is  virtually 
forbidden.  To  teach  American  history  in  the 
schools  of  Vermont  is  prohibited ;  to  display  the 


WHY    ITALY    WENT    TO    WAR         41 

American  flag  is  a  felony;  to  sing  the  "Star- 
Spangled  Banner"  is  punishable  by  imprison- 
ment or  a  fine.  For  the  Vermonters  to  com- 
municate, no  matter  how  innocently,  with  their 
kinsmen  in  the  United  States,  is  to  bring  down 
upon  them  suspicion  and  possible  punishment. 
By  substituting  Austria-Hungary  for  Canada, 
Italy  for  the  United  States,  and  the  Trentino 
for  Vermont,  you  will,  perhaps,  have  a  little 
clearer  understanding  of  why  the  liberation 
of  the  Trentino  from  Austrian  oppression  is 
demanded  by  all  Italians. 

A  similar  homely  parallel  will  serve  to  ex- 
plain the  Adriatic  situation.  You  will  imagine 
Seattle  and  the  shores  of  Puget  Sound,  with 
its  maze  of  islands,  in  Canadian  possession. 
Seattle,  Vancouver,  and  Victoria  are  strongly 
fortified  bases  for  Canadian  battle-fleets  and 
flotillas  of  destroyers  which  constantly  menace 
the  commercial  cities  along  our  Pacific  sea- 
board. The  Americans  dwelling  in  Seattle  and 
the  towns  of  the  Olympic  Peninsula  are  under 
an  even  harsher  rule  than  their  brethren  in 


42  ITALY    AT    WAR 

Vermont.  No  American  may  hold  a  Govern- 
ment position.  The  Canadian  authorities  en- 
tourage and  assist  the  immigration  of  thou- 
sands of  Orientals  in  order  to  get  the  trade  of 
the  region  out  of  American  hands.  A  Cana- 
dian naval  base  at  Honolulu  threatens  our 
trade  routes  in  the  Pacific  and  our  commercial 
interests  in  Mexico  and  the  Orient.  In  this 
analogy  Seattle  stands,  of  course,  for  Trieste; 
the  Olympic  Peninsula  corresponds  to  the 
Istrian  Peninsula ;  for  Vancouver  and  Victoria 
you  will  read  Pola  and  Fiume;  while  Hono- 
lulu might,  by  a  slight  exercise  of  the  imagina- 
tion, be  translated  into  the  great  Austrian 
stronghold  of  Cattaro.  Such  is  a  reasonably 
^accurate  parallel  to  Italy's  Adriatic  problem. 
For  purposes  of  administration  the  Trentino, 
which  the  Austrians  call  Siid-Tirol,  forms  one 
province  with  Tyrol.  For  such  a  union  there 
is  no  geographic,  ethnologic,  historic,  or  eco- 
nomic excuse.  Of  the  347,000  inhabitants  of 
the  Trentino,  338,000  are  Italian.  The  half 
inillion  inhabitants  of  Tyrol  are,  on  the  other 


WHY    ITALY    WENT    TO    WAR         43 

hand,  all  Germans.  The  two  regions  are  sepa- 
rated by  a  tremendous  mountain  wall,  whose 
only  gateway  is  the  Brenner.  On  one  side  of 
that  wall  is  Italy,  with  her  vines,  her  mulberry- 
trees,  her  whitewashed,  red-tiled  cottages,  her 
light-hearted,  easy-going,  Latin-blooded  peas- 
antry ;  across  the  mountains  is  the  solemn,  aus- 
tere German  scenery,  with  savage  peaks  and 
gloomy  pine  forests,  a  region  inhabited  by  a 
stolid,  slow-thinking  Teutonic  people.  The 
Trentino  and  the  Tyrol  have  about  as  much  in 
common  as  Cuba  and  Maine. 

The  possession  of  the  Trentino  by  Austria  is 
not  alone  a  geographical  and  ethnological 
anomaly :  it  is  a  pistol  held  at  the  head  of  Italy. 
Glance  once  more  at  the  map,  if  you  please, 
and  you  will  see  what  I  mean.  The  Trentino 
is,  you  will  note,  nothing  but  a  prolongation  of 
the  valleys  of  Lombardy  and  Venetia.  Held 
by  Austria,  it  is  like  a  great  intrenched  camp 
in  the  heart  of  northern  Italy,  menacing  the 
valley  of  the  Po,  which  is  one  of  the  kingdom's 
most  vital  arteries,  and  the  link  between  her 


44  ITALY   AT   WAR 

richest  and  most  productive  cities.  From  the 
Trentino,  with  its  ring  of  forts,  Austria  can 
always  threaten  and  invade  her  neighbor.  She 
lies  in  the  mountains,  with  the  plains  beneath 
her.  She  can  always  sweep  down  into  the 
plains,  but  the  Italians  cannot  seriously  invade 
the  mountains,  since,  even  were  they  able  to 
force  the  strongly  defended  passes,  they  would 
only  find  a  maze  of  other  mountains  beyond. 
When,  in  the  summer  of  1916,  the  Archduke 
Frederick  launched  his  great  offensive  from  the 
Trentino,  supported  by  a  shattering  artillery, 
he  came  perilously  near — much  nearer,  indeed, 
than  the  world  was  permitted  to  know — to  cut- 
ting the  main  east-and-west  line  of  communica- 
tions, which  would  have  resulted  in  isolating 
the  Italian  armies  operating  on  the  Isonzo. 

The  Trentino  is  dominated  by  the  army.  Its 
administration  is  as  essentially  military  in  char- 
acter as  that  of  Gibraltar.  It  is,  to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  one  vast  camp,  commanded  by 
thirty-five  forts,  gridironed  with  inaccessible 
military  highways,  and  overrun  with  soldiery. 


The  Carnia. 

'The  Carnic  Alps  leap  skyward  in  a  mighty,  mile-high  wall.  .  .  .  You  have 
the  war  before  you,  for  amid  these  mountains  snakes  the  Austro-Italian 
battle-line." 


WHY   ITALY   WENT   TO   WAR        45 

Economic  expansion  has  been  systematically 
discouraged.  The  waterfalls  of  the  Trentino 
could,  it  is  estimated,  develop  250,000  horse- 
power, but  the  province  has  not  benefited  by 
this  energy,  for  the  regions  to  the  north  are 
already  supplied,  and  the  military  authorities 
have  not  permitted  its  transmission  to  the  man- 
ufacturing towns  of  Lombardy  and  Venetia, 
where  it  is  needed.  Neither  roads  nor  railways 
have  been  built  save  for  strategic  purposes,  and, 
as  a  result,  the  peasants  have  virtually  no  out- 
lets for  their  produce.  In  fact,  it  has  been  the 
consistent  policy  of  the  Austrian  Government 
to  completely  isolate  the  Trentino  from  Italy. 
In  pursuance  of  this  policy,  all  telephone  and 
telegraph  communications  and  many  sorely 
needed  railway  connections  with  the  other  side 
of  the  frontier  have  been  prohibited.  Though 
the  renting  of  their  mountain  pastures  had 
always  been  the  peasants'  chief  source  of  in- 
come, the  military  authorities  issued  orders, 
long  before  this  war  began,  that  Italian  herds- 
men could  no  longer  drive  their  cattle  across 


46  ITALY    AT    WAR 

the  border  to  graze,  the  prohibition  being  based 
on  the  ground  that  the  herdsmen  were  really 
Italian  army  officers  in  disguise.  In  recent 
years  the  fear  of  Italian  spies  has  become  with 
the  Austrian  military  authorities  almost  an  in- 
sane obsession.  Innocent  tourists,  engineers, 
and  commercial  travellers  were  arrested  by  the 
score  on  the  charge  of  espionage.  The  mere 
fact  of  being  an  Italian  was  in  itself  ground 
for  suspicion.  Compared  with  the  attitude  of 
the  Austrian  Government  toward  its  Italian 
subjects  in  the  Trentino,  the  treatment  ac- 
corded by  the  Boers  to  the  British  residents  of 
the  Transvaal  was  considerate  and  kind.  Thus 
there  arose  in  the  Trentino,  as  in  all  Austrian 
provinces  inhabited  by  Italians,  a  strange,  un- 
healthy atmosphere  of  suspicion,  of  secrecy, 
and  of  fear.  This  atmosphere  became  so  pro- 
nounced in  recent  years  that  it  was  sensed  even 
by  passing  tourists,  who  felt  as  though  they 
were  in  a  besieged  city,  surrounded  by  secret 
•agents  and  spies. 

But,  oppressive  and  tyrannical  as  are  Aus- 


WHY    ITALY    WENT    TO    WAR         47 

tria's  methods  in  the  Trentino,  the  final  expres- 
sion of  her  anti-Italian  policy  is  to  be  found 
in  the  Adriatic  provinces.  Here  lie  Austria's 
chief  interests — the  sea  and  commerce.  Here, 
therefore,  is  to  be  found  an  even  deeper  fear  of 
Italianism,  and  here  still  sterner  methods  are 
employed  to  stamp  it  out.  The  government  of 
Triestetis,  in  fact,  organized  for  that  very  pur- 
pose— witness  the  persecutions  to  which  the 
citizens  of  Italian  descent  are  subjected  by  the 
police,  the  countless  political  imprisonments, 
the  systematic  hostility  to  Italian  schools  in 
contrast  to  the  Government's  generosity  toward 
German  and  Slovene  institutions,  and  the  State 
assistance  given  to  Czech,  Croatian,  and  Slo- 
vene banks  for  the  purpose  of  taking  the  trade 
of  the  city  out  of  Italian  hands.  Italians  are 
excluded  from  all  municipal  employments, 
from  the  postal  service,  the  railways,  and  the 
State  industries.  Nor  does  the  official  perse- 
cution end  there.  The  presentation  of  many 
of  the  old  Italian  operas  is  forbidden.  The 
singing  of  Garibaldi's  Hymn  leads  to  jail. 


48  ITALY   AT    WAR 

Every  year  thousands  of  Italian  papers  are 
confiscated.  Until  the  war  began  hundreds  of 
Italians  were  expelled  annually  by  the  police, 
to  be  replaced  (according  to  the  official  instruc- 
tions of  1912)  "by  more  loyal  and  more  useful 
elements." 

Though  for  more  than  five  centuries  Trieste 
has  belonged  to  the  House  of  Hapsburg,  the 
city  is  as  Italian  as  though  it  had  always  been 
ruled  from  Rome.  There  is  nothing  in  Trieste, 
save  only  the  uniforms  of  the  military  and  the 
K.K.  on  the  doors  of  the  Government  offices, 
to  remind  one  of  Austrian  rule.  The  language, 
the  customs,  the  architecture,  the  names  over 
the  shop-doors,  the  faces  of  the  people — every- 
thing is  characteristically  Italian.  Outside  of 
Trieste  the  zones  of  nationality  are  clearly 
divided:  to  the  west,  on  the  coast,  dwell  the 
Italians;  in  the  mountainous  interior  to  the 
eastward  are  the  Slavs.  But  in  Istria,  that 
arrowhead-shaped  peninsula  at  the  head  of  the 
Adriatic,  the  population  is  almost  solidly  Ital- 
ian. Though  alternately  bribed  and  bullied, 


WHY    ITALY    WENT    TO    WAR         49 

cajoled  and  coerced,  there  persists,  both  among 
the  simple  peasants  of  the  Trentino  and  Istria 
and  the  hard-headed  business  men  of  Trieste,  a 
most  sentimental  and  inextinguishable  attach- 
ment for  the  Italian  motherland.  There  is, 
indeed,  something  approaching  the  sublime  in 
the  fascination  which  Italy  exercises  across  the 
centuries  on  these  exiled  sons  of  hers. 

The  arguments  adduced  by  Italy  for  the  ac- 
quisition of  Dalmatia  are  by  no  means  as  sound 
ethnographically  as  her  claims  to  the  Trentino 
and  Trieste.  Though  the  apostles  of  expansion 
assert  that  ten  per  cent  of  the  population  of 
Dalmatia  is  Italian,  this  is  an  exaggeration,  the 
most  reliable  authorities  agreeing  that  the  Ital- 
ian element  does  not  exceed  three  or  four  per 
cent.  But  this  is  not  saying  that  Dalmatia  is 
not,  in  spirit,  in  language,  in  traditions,  Italian. 
Cruise  along  its  shores,  talk  to  its  people,  view 
the  architecture  of  Ragusa,  of  Zara,  of  Spalato, 
and  you  will  not  need  to  be  reminded  that  Dal- 
matia was  Venetian  until,  little  more  than  a 
century  ago,  Napoleon  handed  it  over  to  Aus- 


50  ITALY    AT    WAR 

tria  at  the  peace  of  Campo  Formio  in  return 
for  the  recognition  of  his  two  made-to-order 
states,  the  Cis- Alpine  and  Ligurian  Republics. 
It  is  safe  to  say  that  the  war  will  produce 
no  more  delicate  problem  than  that  of  Dal- 
matia,  which,  as  I  have  already  shown,  can 
never  be  settled  on  purely  racial  lines.  Those 
who  have  studied  the  subject  agree  that  to 
completely  shut  off  Austria-Hungary  from  the 
sea  would  be  a  proceeding  of  grave  unwisdom 
and  one  which  would  be  certain  to  sow  the 
seed  for  future  wars.  This  is,  I  believe,  the 
view  taken  by  most  deep-thinking  Italians. 
The  Italianization  of  the  Adriatic's  eastern 
seaboard  would  result,  moreover,  in  raising  a 
barrier  against  the  legitimate  expansion  of  the 
Balkan  Slavs  and  would  end  the  Serbian  dream 
of  an  outlet  to  the  sea.  But  the  statesmen  who 
are  shaping  Italy's  policies  are,  I  am  convinced, 
too  sensible  and  too  far-seeing  to  commit  so 
grave  a  blunder.  Were  I  to  hazard  a  proph- 
ecy— and  prophesying  is  always  a  poor  busi- 
ness— I  should  say  that,  no  matter  how  con- 


WHY    ITALY    WENT    TO    WAR         51 

elusive  a  victory  the  Allies  may  achieve,  neither- 
Austria-Hungary  nor  Serbia  will  be  wholly 
cut  off  from  the  salt  water. 

Events  in  the  less  remote  theatres  of  war 
have  prevented  the  Italian  occupation  of  Al- 
bania from  attracting  the  attention  it  deserves. 
The  operations  in  that  region  have,  moreover, 
been  shrouded  in  mystery;  foreigners  desiring 
to  visit  Albania  have  met  with  polite  but  firm 
refusals ;  the  published  reports  of  the  progress 
of  the  Albanian  expedition — which,  by  the  way, 
is  a  much  larger  force  than  is  generally  sup- 
posed— have  been  meagre  and  unsatisfying. 
The  Italians  figure,  I  fancy,  on  making  their 
occupation  as  extensive  and  as  solid  as  possible 
before  the  Albanian  question  comes  up  for  in-, 
ternational  discussion. 

If  Italy's  ambitions  in  Dalmatia  bring  her- 
into  collision  with  the  Slavs,  her  plans  for 
expansion  in  Albania  are  bound  to  arouse  the 
hostility  of  the  Greeks.  The  Italian  troops  at 
Argyocastro  are  occupying  territory  which 
Greece  looks  on  as  distinctly  within  her  sphere 


52  ITALY    AT    WAR 

of  influence,  and  they  menace  Janina  itself. 
Though  Italy  has  intimated,  I  believe,  that  her 
occupation  of  Albania  is  not  to  be  regarded  as 
permanent,  she  is  most  certainly  on  the  eastern 
shore  of  the  Adriatic  to  stay,  for  her  commer- 
cial and  political  interests  will  not  permit  her 
to  have  a  Haiti  or  a  Mexico  at  her  front  door. 
So  I  rather  fancy  that,  when  the  peacemakers 
deal  out  the  cards  upon  the  green-topped  table, 
Albania  will  become  Italian  in  name,  if  not  in 
fact,  under  a  control  similar  to  that  which  the 
French  exercise  in  Morocco  or  the  British  in 
Egypt.  And  it  will  be  quite  natural,  for  there 
is  in  the  Albanians  a  strong  streak  of  Italian. 
The  settlement  of  this  trans- Adriatic  prob- 
lem is  going  to  require  the  most  cautious  and 
delicate  handling.  How  far  will  Italy  be  per- 
mitted to  go?  How  far  may  Serbia  come? 
Shall  Austria  be  cut  off  from  the  sea?  Is  Hun- 
gary to  become  an  independent  kingdom?  Is 
Montenegro  to  disappear?  What  is  Greece  to 
get?  The  only  one  of  these  questions  that  can 
be  answered  with  any  certainty  is  the  last. 


WHY    ITALY    WENT    TO    WAR         53 

Greece,  as  the  result  of  her  shifty  and  even 
treacherous  attitude,  will  get  very  little  consid- 
eration. On  the  decision  of  these  questions 
hangs  the  future  of  the  Balkan  peoples. 
Though  their  final  settlement  must,  of  course, 
be  deferred  until  the  coming  of  peace,  some 
regard  will  have  to  be  paid,  after  all,  to  actual 
occupancies  and  accomplished  facts.  That  is 
why  Italy  is  making  her  position  in  Albania  so 
solid  that  she  cannot  readily  be  ousted.  And 
perhaps  it  is  well  that  she  is.  Europe  will  owe 
a  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  Italians  if  they  can 
bring  law  and  order  to  Albania,  which  has  never 
had  a  speaking  acquaintance  with  either  of 
them. 

Nor  do  Italian  ambitions  end  with  the  dom- 
ination of  the  eastern  shore  of  the  Adriatic. 
With  the  destruction,  or  at  least  the  disable- 
ment, of  the  Austrian  Empire,  Italy  dreams 
of  bringing  within  her  political  and  commercial 
sphere  of  influence  a  considerable  portion  of 
the  Balkan  Peninsula,  from  which  she  is  sepa- 
rated by  only  forty-seven  miles  of  salt  water. 


54  ITALY    AT    WAR 

But  that  is  only  the  beginning  of  her  vision  of 
commercial  greatness.  Look  at  the  map  and 
you  will  see  that  with  its  continuation,  the 
island  of  Sicily,  Italy  forms  a  great  wharf 
which  reaches  out  into  the  Mediterranean, 
nearly  to  the  shores  of  Africa.  Her  peculiarly 
fortunate  geographical  position  enables  her, 
therefore,  to  offer  the  shortest  route  from 
Western  and  Central  Europe  to  North  Africa, 
the  Levant,  and  the  Farther  East.  It  has  been 
rumored,  though  with  what  truth  I  cannot  say, 
that  the  Allies  have  agreed,  in  the  event  that 
they  are  completely  victorious,  to  a  rectification 
of  the  Tunisian  and  Egyptian  frontiers,  thus 
materially  improving  Italy's  position  in  Libya, 
as  the  colony  of  Tripolitania  is  now  known.  It 
is  also  generally  understood  that,  should  the 
dismemberment  of  Asiatic  Turkey  be  decided 
upon,  the  city  of  Smyrna,  with  its  splendid 
harbor  and  profitable  commerce,  as  well  as  a 
slice  of  the  hinterland,  will  fall  to  Italy's  por- 
tion. With  her  flag  thus  firmly  planted  on  the 
coasts  of  three  continents,  with  her  most  dan- 


WHY    ITALY    WENT    TO    WAR         55 

gerous  rival  finally  disposed  of,  with  the  splen- 
did industrial  organization,  born  of  the  war, 
speeded  up  to  its  highest  efficiency,  and  with 
vast  new  markets  in  Africa,  in  Asia,  in  the 
Balkans  opened  to  her  products,  Italy  dreams 
of  wresting  from  France  and  England  the 
overlordship  of  the  Middle  Sea. 

It  would  be  useless  to  deny  that  an  unfavor- 
able impression  was  created  in  the  United 
States  by  the  fact  that  Italy,  in  entering  the 
war,  turned  against  her  former  allies.  Her 
enemies  have  charged  that  she  dickered  with 
both  the  Entente  and  the  Central  Powers,  and 
only  joined  the  former  because  they  made  her 
the  most  tempting  offer.  That  she  did  dicker 
with  Austria  is  but  the  unvarnished  truth — and 
of  that  chapter  of  Italian  history  the  less  said 
the  better — but  I  am  convinced  that  she  finally 
entered  the  war,  not  because  she  had  been 
bribed  by  promises  of  territorial  concessions, 
but  because  the  national  conscience  demanded 
that  she  join  the  forces  of  civilization  in  their 
struggle  against  barbarism.  Suppose  that  I 


56  ITALY    AT    WAR 

sketch  for  you,  in  brief,  bold  outline,  the  chain 
of  historic  events  which  occurred  during  the 
ten  months  between  the  presentation  to  Serbia 
of  the  Austrian  ultimatum  and  Italy's  declara- 
tion of  war  on  Austria.  Then  you  will  be  able 
to  form  your  own  opinion. 

On  the  evening  of  July  23,  1914,  Austria 
handed  her  note  to  Serbia.  It  demanded  in 
overbearing  and  insulting  terms  that  Ser- 
bia should  place  under  Austrian  control  her 
schools,  her  law-courts,  her  police,  in  fact  her 
whole  internal  administration.  The  little  king- 
dom was  given  forty-eight  hours  in  which  to 
consider  her  answer.  In  other  words,  she  was 
called  upon,  within  the  space  of  two  days,  to 
sacrifice  her  national  independence.  At  six 
o'clock  on  the  evening  of  July  25  the  time  limit 
allowed  by  the  Austrian  ultimatum  expired. 
Half  an  hour  later  the  Austrian  Minister  and 
his  staff  left  Belgrade. 

Now  Article  VII  of  the  Treaty  of  Alliance 
between  Italy,  Austria,  and  Germany  provided 
that  in  the  event  of  any  change  in  the  status 


WHY    ITALY    WENT    TO    WAR         57 

quo  of  the  Balkan  Peninsula  which  would  entail 
a  temporary  or  permanent  occupation,  Austria 
and  Italy  bound  themselves  to  work  in  mutual 
accord  on  the  basis  of  reciprocal  compensation 
for  any  advantage,  territorial  or  otherwise, 
obtained  by  either  of  the  contracting  Powers. 
Here  is  the  text  of  the  Article.  Read  it  for 
yourself : 

Austria-Hungary  and  Italy,  who  aim  exclusively  at 
che  maintenance  of  the  status  quo  in  the  East,  bind 
themselves  to  employ  their  influence  to  prevent  every 
territorial  change  which  may  be  detrimental  to  one  or 
other  of  the  contracting  Powers.  They  will  give  each 
other  all  explanations  necessary  for  the  elucidation  of 
their  respective  intentions  as  well  as  those  of  the  other 
Powers.  If,  however,  in  the  course  of  events  the  main- 
tenance of  the  status  quo  in  the  Balkans  and  on  the 
Ottoman  coasts  and  in  the  islands  of  the  Adriatic  and 
the  2Egean  Seas  should  become  impossible,  and  if,  either 
in  consequence  of  the  acts  of  a  third  Power  or  of  other 
causes,  Austria  and  Italy  should  be  compelled  to  change 
the  status  quo  by  a  temporary  or  permanent  occupation, 
such  occupation  shall  only  take  place  after  previous 
agreement  between  the  two  Powers,  based  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  a  reciprocal  arrangement  for  all  the  advantages, 
territorial  or  other,  which  one  of  them  may  secure  out- 
side the  status  quo,  and  in  such  a  manner  as  to  satisfy 
all  the  legitimate  claims  of  both  parties. 


58  ITALY   AT   WAR 

Nothing  could  be  plainer  than  that  Austria- 
Hungary,  by  forcing  war  upon  Serbia,  planned 
to  change  the  status  quo  in  the  Near  East. 
[Yet  she  had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  give  Italy 
any  explanation  of  her  intentions,  nor  had  she 
said  anything  about  giving  her  ally  reciprocal 
compensation  as  provided  for  in  the  treaty. 
Three  days  after  the  memorable  23d  of  July, 
therefore,  Italy  intimated  to  the  Vienna  Gov- 
ernment that  her  idea  of  adequate  compensa- 
tion would  be  the  cession  of  those  Austrian 
provinces  inhabited  by  Italians.  In  other 
words,  she  insisted  that,  if  Austria  was  to  ex- 
tend her  borders  below  the  Danube  by  an  occu- 
pation of  Serbia,  as  was  obviously  her  inten- 
tion, thus  upsetting  the  balance  of  power  in  the 
Balkans,  Italy  expected  to  receive  as  compen- 
sation the  Trentino  and  Trieste,  which,  though 
under  Austrian  rule,  are  Italian  in  sentiment 
and  population.  Otherwise,  she  added,  the 
Triple  Alliance  would  be  broken.  On  the  3d 
of  August,  having  received  no  satisfactory  re- 
ply from  Austria,  Italy  declared  her  neutrality. 


WHY    ITALY    WENT    TO    WAR         69 

In  so  doing,  however,  she  made  it  quite  clear 
that  she  in  no  way  admitted  Austria's  right  to 
a  free  hand  in  the  Adriatic  or  the  Balkan  Pen- 
insula— regions  which  Italy  has  long  regarded 
as  within  her  own  sphere  of  influence. 

Early  in  the  winter  of  1914  Prince  von 
Billow,  one  of  the  most  suave  and  experienced 
German  diplomats,  arrived  in  Rome  on  a  spe- 
cial mission  from  Berlin.  In  his  first  interview 
with  the  Italian  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs, 
Baron  Sonnino,  he  frankly  acknowledged 
Italy's  right  to  territorial  compensation  under 
the  terms  of  Article  VII  of  the  Triple  Alli- 
ance. There  is  no  doubt  that  Germany,  recog- 
nizing the  danger  of  flouting  Italy,  brought 
strong  pressure  to  bear  on  Austria  to  surrender 
at  least  a  portion  of  the  regions  in  question. 
Austria,  however,  bluntly  refused  to  heed  either 
Italy's  demands  or  Germany's  suggestions. 
She  refused  even  to  discuss  the  question  of  ced- 
ing any  part  of  her  Italian  provinces.  She 
attempted,  indeed,  to  reverse  the  situation  by 
claiming  compensation  from  Italy  for  the  occu- 


60  ITALY    AT    WAR 

pation  of  the  Dodecannesus  and  Vallona.  The 
Dodecannesus  was  held  as  a  pledge  of  Turkish 
good  faith,  while  the  occupation  of  Vallona  was 
indispensable  for  the  protection  of  Italian  in- 
terests in  Albania,  where  anarchy  reigned,  and 
where  much  the  same  conditions  prevailed 
which  existed  in  Mexico  at  the  time  of  the 
American  occupation  of  Vera  Cruz. 

The  discussions  might  well  have  dragged  on 
indefinitely,  but  late  in  March,  1915,  Austria, 
goaded  by  her  ally  into  a  more  conciliatory 
attitude,  reluctantly  consented  to  make  con- 
crete proposals.  She  offered  to  Italy  the  south- 
ern half  of  the  Trentino,  but  mentioned  no  defi- 
nite boundaries,  and  added  that  the  bargain 
could  not  be  carried  into  effect  until  peace  had 
been  concluded.  In  return  she  claimed  from 
Italy  heavy  financial  contributions  to  the  Na- 
tional Debt  and  to  the  provincial  and  communal 
loans,  also  full  indemnity  for  all  investments 
made  in  the  ceded  territory,  for  all  ecclesiastical 
property  and  entailed  estates,  and  for  the  pen- 
sions of  State  officials.  To  assign  even  an  ap- 


WHY    ITALY    WENT    TO    WAR         61 

proximate  value  to  such  concessions  would  en- 
tail a  prolonged  delay — a  fact  of  which  Austria 
was  perfectly  aware. 

Italy  responded  to  the  Austrian  advances  by 
presenting  her  counter-claims,  and  for  more 
than  a  month  the  negotiations  pursued  a  diffi- 
cult and  tedious  course.  It  must  be  admitted 
that,  everything  considered,  Italy's  claims  were 
not  particularly  exorbitant.  She  claimed  (1) 
a  more  extended  and  more  easily  defendable 
frontier  in  the  Trentino,  but  she  refrained  from 
demanding  the  cession  of  the  entire  region  lying 
south  of  the  Brenner,  as  she  would  have  been 
justified  in  doing  from  a  strategic  point  of 
view;  (2)  a  new  boundary  on  the  Isonzo  which 
would  give  her  possession  of  the  towns  of  Grad- 
isca  and  Gorizia  (she  has  since  taken  them  by 
arms) ;  (3)  the  cession  of  certain  islands  of  the 
Curzolari  group;  (4<)  the  withdrawal  of  Aus- 
trian pretensions  in  Albania  and  the  acknowl- 
edgement of  Italy's  right  to  occupy  the  Dode- 
cannesus  and  Vallona;  (5)  the  formation  of 
the  city  of  Trieste,  together  with  the  adjacent 


62  ITALY   AT    WAR 

judicial  districts  of  Priano  and  Capo  d'Istria, 
into  an  autonomous  State,  independent  of  both 
Italy  and  Austria.  By  such  an  arrangement 
Austria  would  have  retained  nearly  the  whole 
of  the  Istrian  Peninsula,  the  cities  of  Pola  and 
Fiume,  the  entire  Dalmatian  coast,  and  the 
majority  of  the  Dalmatian  Islands.  But  she 
refused  to  even  consider  Italy's  proposed 
changes  in  the  Adriatic,  or  to  do  more  than 
slightly  increase  her  offer  in  the  Trentino. 
Italy  therefore  broke  off  negotiations,  and  on 
May  4,  1915,  the  alliance  with  Austria  was 
denounced. 

Prince  von  Billow  was  now  confronted  with 
the  complete  failure  of  his  mission  of  keeping 
Italy  yoked  to  Austria  and  Germany.  No  one 
realized  better  than  this  suave  and  astute  diplo- 
matist that  the  bonds  which  still  held  together 
the  three  nations  were  about  to  break.  He 
next  endeavored,  by  methods  verging  on  the 
unscrupulous,  to  create  distrust  of  the  Italian 
Government  among  the  Italian  people.  A 
member  of  the  Reichstag  circulated  stealthily 


63 

among  the  deputies  and  journalists,  flattering 
each  in  turn  with  the  assumption  that  he  alone 
was  the  man  of  the  moment,  and  offering  him, 
in  the  names  of  Germany  and  Austria,  new 
concessions  which  had  not  been  communicated 
to  the  Italian  Cabinet.  It  was  back-stairs  di- 
plomacy in  its  shadiest  and  most  questionable 
form.  The  concessions  thus  unofficially  prom- 
ised consisted  of  the  offer  of  a  new  frontier  in 
the  Trentino,  and  for  Trieste  an  administrative 
but  not  a  political  autonomy.  The  Adriatic, 
it  seems,  was  to  remain  as  before.  And  these 
concessions  were  all  hedged  about  by  impossible 
restrictions,  or  were  not  to  come  into  effect 
until  after  the  war.  Yet  at  one  time  these 
intrigues  came  perilously  near  to  accomplish- 
ing their  purpose.  Matters  were  still  further 
complicated  by  the  activities  and  interference 
of  a  former  Foreign  Minister,  Signor  Giolitti, 
whose  vanity  had  been  flattered,  and  whose 
ambitions  had  been  cleverly  played  upon  by 
the  Teutonic  emissary.  To  fully  understand 
the  extraordinary  nature  of  this  proceeding, 


64  ITALY    AT    WAR 

one  must  picture  Count  von  Bernstorff,  at  the 
height  of  the  submarine  crisis,  negotiating  not 
with  the  Government  of  the  United  States,  but 
with  Mr.  William  Jennings  Bryan! 

But,  fortunately  for  the  national  honor,  the 
Italian  people,  having  had  time  to  reflect  what 
the  future  of  Italy  would  be  after  the  war, 
whatever  its  outcome,  were  they  to  be  cut  off 
from  the  only  peoples  in  Europe  with  which 
they  had  spiritual  sympathy,  took  things  into 
their  own  hands.  The  storm  of  anger  and  in- 
dignation which  swept  the  country  rocked  the 
Government  to  its  foundations.  The  Salandra 
cabinet,  which  had  resigned  as  a  protest  against 

* 

the  machinations  of  Giolitti,  was  returned  to 
power.  Through  every  city,  town,  and  ham- 
let from  Savoy  to  Sicily,  thronged  workmen, 
students,  business  and  professional  men,  even 
priests  and  monks,  waving  the  red-white-and- 
green  banner  and  shouting  the  national  watch- 
words "Italia  Irredenta,"  and  "Avanti  Savoia!" 
But  there  was  a  deeper  cause  underlying 


WHY    ITALY    WENT    TO    WAR         65 

these  great  patriotic  demonstrations  than  mere 
hatred  of  Austria.  They  were  expressions  of 
national  resentment  at  the  impotent  and  de- 
pendent role  which  Italy  had  played  so  long. 
D'Annunzio,  in  one  of  his  famous  addresses  in 
May,  1915,  put  this  feeling  into  words:  "We 
will  no  longer  be  a  museum  of  antiquities,  a 
kind  of  hostelry,  a  pleasure  resort,  under  a  sky 
painted  over  with  Prussian  blue,  for  the  benefit 
of  international  honeymooners." 

The  sentiment  of  the  people  was  expressed 
by  the  Idea  Nazionale,  which  on  May  10  de- 
clared : 

Italy  desires  war:  (1)  In  order  to  obtain  Trent, 
Trieste,  and  Dalmatia.  The  country  desires  it.  A 
nation  which  has  the  opportunity  to  free  its  land  should 
do  so  as  a  matter  of  imperative  necessity.  .  .  .  (2) 
...  in  order  to  conquer  for  ourselves  a  good  strategic 
frontier  in  the  North  and  East.  ...  (3)  ...  because 
to-day,  in  the  Adriatic,  in  the  Balkan  Peninsula,  the 
Mediterranean,  and  Asia,  Italy  should  have  all  the  ad- 
vantages it  is  possible  for  her  to  have,  and  without  which 
her  political,  economic,  and  moral  power  would  diminish 
in  proportion  as  that  of  others  increased.  ...  If  we 
would  be  a  great  Power  we  must  accept  certain  obliga- 
tions: one  of  them  is  war.  .  .  . 


66  ITALY    AT    WAR 

The  voice  of  the  people  was  unmistakable: 
they  wanted  war.  To  have  refused  that  de- 
mand would  have  meant  the  fall  of  the  Govern- 
ment if  not  of  the  dynasty.  The  King  did  not 
want  war.  The  responsible  politicians,  with 
a  very  few  exceptions,  did  not  want  it.  The 
nobility  did  not  want  it.  The  Church  did  not 
want  it.  The  bankers  and  business  men  of  the 
nation  did  not  want  it.  It  was  the  great  mass 
of  the  Italian  people,  shamed  and  indignant  at 
the  position  in  which  the  nation  had  been  placed 
by  the  sordid  dickering  with  Austria,  who 
swept  the  country  into  war.  I  was  in  Italy 
during  those  exciting  days;  I  witnessed  the 
impressive  popular  demonstrations  in  the  lar- 
ger cities;  and  in  my  mind  there  was  left  no 
shadow  of  a  doubt  that  the  Government  had 
to  choose  between  war  and  revolution.  On 
the  23d  of  May,  1915,  Italy  declared  war  on 
Austria. 

For  ten  months  Italy,  in  the  face  of  sneers 
and  jeers,  threats  and  reproaches,  had  main- 
tained her  neutrality.  Be  it  remembered,  how- 


WHY    ITALY    WENT    TO    WAR         67 

ever,  that  it  was  from  the  first  a  neutrality 
benevolent  to  the  Allies.  Even  those  who  con- 
sider themselves  well  informed  have  apparently 
failed  to  recognize  how  decisive  a  factor  that 
neutrality  was.  Italy's  action  in  promptly 
withdrawing  her  forces  from  the  French  border 
relieved  France's  fears  of  an  Italian  invasion, 
and  left  her  free  to  use  the  half  million  troops 
which  had  been  guarding  her  southern  frontier 
to  oppose  the  German  advance  on  Paris.  It  is. 
not  overstating  the  facts  to  assert  that,  had 
Italy's  attitude  toward  France  been  less  frank 
and  honest,  had  the  Republic  not  felt  safe  in 
stripping  its  southern  border  of  troops,  von 
Kluck  would  have  broken  through  to  Paris — 
he  came  perilously  near  to  doing  so  as  it  was — 
and  the  whole  course  of  the  war  would  have 
been  changed.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that,  when 
the  diplomatic  history  of  the  war  comes  to  be 
written,  the  attitude  of  Italy  during  those  crit- 
ical days  will  receive  the  recognition  which  it 
deserves. 


Ill 

FIGHTING   ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE 


'TMIE  sun  had  scarcely  shown  itself  above 
•••  the  snowy  rampart  of  the  Julian  Alps 
when  the  hoarse  throbbing  of  the  big  gray  staff- 
car  awoke  the  echoes  of  the  narrow  street  on 
which  fronts  the  Hotel  Croce  di  Malta  in 
Udine.  Despite  a  leather  coat,  a  fur-lined  cap, 
and  a  great  fleecy  muffler  which  swathed  me  to 
the  eyes,  I  shivered  in  the  damp  chill  of  the 
winter  dawn.  We  adjusted  our  goggles  and 
settled  down  into  the  heavy  rugs,  the  soldier- 
driver  threw  in  his  clutch,  the  sergeant  sitting 
beside  him  let  out  a  vicious  snarl  from  the  horn, 
the  little  group  of  curious  onlookers  scattered 
hastily,  and  the  powerful  car  leaped  forward 
like  a  race-horse  that  feels  the  spur.  With  the 
horn  sounding  its  hoarse  warning,  we  thun- 
dered through  the  narrow,  tortuous,  cobble- 
paved  streets,  between  rows  of  old,  old  houses 

68 


ON   THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE          €9 

with  faded  frescoes  on  their  plastered  walls  and 
with  dim,  echoing  arcades.  And  so  into  the 
Piazza  Vittorio  Emanuele — there  is  no  more 
charming  little  square  in  Italy — with  its  foun- 
tain and  its  two  stone  giants  and  the  pompous 
statue  of  an  incredibly  ugly  King  astride  a 
prancing  horse  and  a  monument  to  Peace  set 
up  by  Napoleon  to  commemorate  a  treaty 
which  was  the  cause  of  many  wars.  At  the 
back  of  the  piazza,  like  the  back-drop  on  a 
stage,  rises  a  towering  sugar-loaf  mound, 
thrown  up,  so  they  say,  by  Attila,  that  from  it 
he  might  conveniently  watch  the  siege  and 
burning  of  Aquileia.  Perched  atop  this  mound,, 
and  looking  for  all  the  world  like  one  of  Max- 
field  Parrish's  painted  castles,  is  the  Castello, 
once  the  residence  of  the  Venetian  and  Austrian 
governors,  and,  rising  above  it,  a  white  and 
slender  tower.  If  you  will  take  the  trouble  to 
climb  to  the  summit  of  this  tower  you  will  find 
that  the  earth  you  left  behind  is  now  laid  out 
at  your  feet  like  one  of  those  putty  maps  you 
-sed  to  make  in  school.  Below  you,  like  a  vast 


70  ITALY    AT    WAR 

tessellated  floor,  is  the  Friulian  plain,  dotted 
with  red-roofed  villages,  checkerboarded  with 
fields  of  green  and  brown,  stretching  away, 
away  to  where,  beyond  the  blue  Isonzo,  the 
Julian  and  Carnic  Alps  leap  skyward  in  a 
mighty,  curving,  mile-high  wall.  You  have  the 
war  before  you,  for  amid  those  distant  moun- 
tains snakes  the  Austro-Italian  battle-line. 
Just  as  Attila  and  his  Hunnish  warriors  looked 
down  from  the  summit  of  this  very  mound, 
fourteen  hundred  years  ago,  upon  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Italian  plain-towns,  so  to-day,  from 
the  same  vantage-point,  the  Italians  can  see 
their  artillery  methodically  pounding  to  pieces 
the  defenses  of  the  modern  Huns.  A  strange 
reversal  of  history,  is  it  not? 

Leaving  on  our  right  the  Palazzo  Civico, 
built  two-score  years  before  Columbus  set 
foot  on  the  beach  of  San  Salvador,  we  rolled 
through  the  gateway  in  the  ancient  city  wall, 
acknowledging  the  salute  of  the  steel-helmeted 
sentry  just  as  the  mail-clad  knights  who  rode 
through  that  same  gateway  to  the  fighting  on 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE  71 

the  plain,  long  centuries  ago,  doubtless  ac- 
knowledged the  salute  of  the  steel-capped  men- 
at-arms.  Down  the  straight  white  road  we 
sped,  between  rows  of  cropped  and  stunted 
willows,  which  line  the  highway  on  either  side 
like  soldiers  with  bowed  heads.  It  is  a  storied 
and  romantic  region,  this  Venetia,  whose  fertile 
farm-lands,  crisscrossed  with  watercourses, 
stretch  away,  flat  and  brown  as  an  oaken  floor, 
to  the  snowy  crescent  of  the  Alps.  Scenes  of 
past  wars  it  still  bears  upon  its  face,  in  its  farm- 
houses clustered  together  for  common  protec- 
tion, in  the  stout  walls  and  loopholed  watch- 
towers  of  its  towns,  record  of  its  warlike  and 
eventful  past.  One  must  be  prosaic  indeed 
whose  imagination  remains  unstirred  by  a  jour- 
ney across  this  historic  plain,  which  has  been 
invaded  by  Celts,  Istrians,  and  Romans ;  Huns, 
Goths,  and  Lombards ;  Franks,  Germans,  and 
Austrians  in  turn.  Over  there,  a  dozen  miles 
to  the  southward,  lie  the  ruins  of  Aquileia,  once 
one  of  the  great  cities  of  the  western  world,  the 
chief  outpost  fortress  of  the  Roman  Empire, 


72  ITALY    AT    WAR 

visited  by  King  Herod  of  Judea,  and  the  favor- 
ite residence  of  Augustus  and  Diocletian. 
These  fertile  lowlands  were  devastated  by 
Alaric  and  his  Visigoths  and  by  Attila  and  his 
Huns — the  original  Huns,  I  mean.  Down  this 
very  highroad  tramped  the  legions  of  Tiberius 
on  their  way  to  give  battle  to  the  Illyrians  and 
Pannonians.  Here  were  waged  the  savage  con- 
flicts of  the  Guelphs,  the  Ghibellines,  and  the 
Scaligers.  Here  fought  the  great  adventurer, 
Bartolommeo  Colleoni ;  in  the  whitewashed  vil- 
lage inn  of  Campo  Formio,  a  far  greater  adven- 
turer signed  a  treaty  whereby  he  gave  away 
the  whole  of  this  region  as  he  would  have  given 
away  a  gold-piece;  half  a  century  later  Gari- 
baldi and  his  ragged  redshirts  fought  to  win  it 
back. 

For  mile  after  mile  we  sped  through  a  coun- 
tryside which  bore  no  suggestion  of  the  bloody 
business  which  had  brought  me.  So  far  as  war 
was  concerned,  I  might  as  well  have  been  mo- 
toring through  New  England.  But,  though 
an  atmosphere  of  tranquillity  and  security  pre- 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE  73 

railed  down  here  amid  the  villages  and  farm- 
steads of  the  plain,  I  knew  that  up  there 
among  those  snow-crowned  peaks  ahead  of  us, 
musketry  was  crackling,  cannon  were  belching, 
men  were  dying.  But  as  we  approached  the 
front — though  still  miles  and  miles  behind  the 
fighting-line — the  signs  of  war  became  increas- 
ingly apparent:  base  camps,  remount  depots, 
automobile  parks,  aviation  schools,  aerodromes, 
hospitals,  machine-shops,  ammunition-dumps, 
railway  sidings  chock-a-block  with  freight-cars 
and  railway  platforms  piled  high  with  sup- 
plies of  every  description.  Moving  closer,  we 
came  upon  endless  lines  of  motor-trucks  mov- 
ing ammunition  and  supplies  to  the  front  and 
other  lines  of  motor-trucks  and  ambulances 
moving  injured  machinery  and  injured  men  to 
the  repair-depots  and  hospitals  at  the  rear. 
We  passed  Sicilian  mule-carts,  hundreds  upon 
hundreds  of  them,  two-wheeled,  painted  bright 
yellow  or  bright  red  and  covered  with  gay  little 
paintings  such  as  one  sees  on  ice  cream  venders' 
carfci  and  hurdy-gurdies,  the  harness  of  the 


74  ITALY    AT    WAR 

mules  studded  with  brass  and  hung  with  scarlet 
tassels.  Then  long  strings  of  donkeys,  so  heav- 
ily laden  with  wine-skins,  with  bales  of  hay, 
with  ammunition-boxes,  that  all  that  could  be 
seen  of  the  animals  themselves  were  their  swing- 
ing tails  and  wagging  ears.  We  met  convoys 
of  Austrian  prisoners,  guarded  by  cavalry  or 
territorials,  on  their  way  to  the  rear.  They 
looked  tired  and  dirty  and  depressed,  but  most 
prisoners  look  that.  A  man  who  has  spent  days 
or  even  weeks  amid  the  mud  and  blood  of  a 
trench,  with  no  opportunity  to  bathe  or  even 
to  wash  his  hands  and  face,  with  none  too  much 
food,  with  many  of  his  comrades  dead  or 
wounded,  with  a  shell-storm  shrieking  and 
howling  about  him,  and  has  then  had  to  sur- 
render, could  hardly  be  expected  to  appear 
high-spirited  and  optimistic.  Yet  it  has  long 
been  the  custom  of  the  Allied  correspondents 
and  observers  to  base  their  assertions  that  the 
morale  of  the  enemy  is  weakening  and  that  the 
quality  of  his  troops  is  deteriorating  on  the  de- 
meanor of  prisoners  fresh  from  the  firing-line. 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE          75 

Ambulances  passed  us,  travelling  toward  the 
hospitals  at  the  base,  and  sometimes  wounded 
men,  limping  along  on  foot.  The  heads  of  some 
were  swathed  in  blood-stained  bandages,  some 
carried  their  arms  in  slings,  others  hobbled 
by  with  the  aid  of  sticks,  for  the  Italian  army 
is  none  too  well  supplied  with  ambulances  and 
those  who  are  able  to  walk  must  do  so  in  order 
that  the  places  in  the  ambulances  may  be  taken 
by  their  more  seriously  wounded  fellows.  They 
were  dog-tired,  dirty,  caked  with  mud  and 
blood,  but  they  grinned  at  us  cheerfully — for 
were  they  not  beating  the  Austrians?  Indeed, 
one  cannot  look  at  Italian  troops  without  see- 
ing that  the  spirit  of  the  men  is  high  and  that 
they  are  confident  of  victory. 

Now  the  roads  became  crowded,  but  never 
blocked,  with  troops  on  the  march :  infantry  of 
the  line,  short,  sturdily  built  fellows  wearing 
short  capes  of  greenish  gray  and  trench-helmets 
of  painted  steel;  Alpini,  hardy  and  active  as 
the  goats  of  their  own  mountains,  their  tight- 
fitting  breeches  and  their  green  felt  hats  with 


76  ITALY    AT    WAR 

the  slanting  eagle's  feather  making  them  look 
like  the  chorus  of  Robin  Hood;  Bersaglieri,  the 
flower  of  the  Italian  army,  who  have  preserved 
the  traditions  of  their  famous  corps  by  still 
clinging  to  the  flat-brimmed,  rakish  hat  with  its 
huge  bunch  of  drooping  feathers;  engineers, 
laden  like  donkeys  with  intrenching,  bridging, 
and  mining  tools ;  motor-cycle  despatch  riders, 
leather- jacketed  and  mud-bespattered,  the 
light-horsemen  of  modern  war ;  and,  very  occa- 
sionally, for  their  hour  for  action  has  not  yet 
come,  detachments  of  cavalry,  usually  armed 
with  lances,  their  helmets  and  busbies  linen- 
covered  to  match  the  businesslike  simplicity  of 
their  uniform.  About  the  Italian  army  there 
is  not  much  of  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of 
war.  It  is  as  businesslike  as  a  blued-steel 
revolver.  In  its  total  absence  of  swagger  and 
display  it  is  characteristic  of  a  nation  whose 
instincts  are  essentially  democratic.  Every- 
thing considered,  the  Italian  troops  compare 
very  favorably  with  any  in  ^Europe.  The  men 
are  for  the  most  part  shortish,  very  thick-set, 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE  77 

and  burned  by  the  sun  to  the  color  of  a  much- 
used  saddle.  I  rather  expected  to  see  bearded, 
unkempt  fellows,  but  I  found  them  clean- 
shaven and  extraordinarily  neat.  The  Italian 
military  authorities  do  not  approve  of  the 
poilu.  Though  the  men  are  laden  like  pack- 
mules,  they  cover  the  ground  at  a  surprisingly 
smart  pace,  while  special  corps,  such  as  the 
Bersaglieri  and  the  Alpini,  are  famous  for  the 
fashion  in  which  they  take  even  the  steepest 
acclivities  at  the  double.  I  was  told  that, 
though  the  troops  recruited  in  the  North  pos- 
sess the  most  stamina  and  endurance,  the  Nea- 
politans and  Sicilians  have  the  most  elan  and 
make  the  best  fighters,  these  sons  of  the  South 
having  again  and  again  advanced  to  the  as- 
sault through  storms  of  fire  which  the  colder- 
Wooded  Piedmontese  refused  to  face. 

It  is  claimed  for  the  Italian  uniform  that  it 
is  at  once  the  ugliest  and  the  least  visible  of 
any  worn  in  Europe.  "Its  wearer  doesn't  even 
make  a  shadow,"  a  friend  of  mine  remarked. 
The  Italian  military  authorities  were  among 


78  ITALY    AT    WAR 

the  first  to  make  a  scientific  study  of  colors 
for  uniforms.  They  did  not  select,  for  exam- 
ple, the  "horizon  blue"  adopted  by  the  French 
because,  while  this  is  less  visible  on  the  roads 
and  plains  of  a  flat,  open,  sunlit  region,  it 
would  prove  fatally  distinct  on  the  tree-clad 
mountain  slopes  where  the  Italians  are  fight- 
ing. The  color  is  officially  described  as  gray- 
green,  but  the  best  description  of  it  is  that 
given  by  a  British  officer:  "Take  some  mud 
from  the  Blue  Nile,  carefully  rub  into  it  two 
pounds  of  ship-rat's  hair,  paint  a  roan  horse 
with  the  composition,  and  then  you  will  under- 
stand why  the  Austrians  can't  see  the  Italian 
soldiers  in  broad  daylight  at  fifty  yards."  Its 
quality  of  invisibility  is,  indeed,  positively  un- 
canny. While  motoring  in  the  war  zone  I  have 
repeatedly  come  upon  bodies  of  troops  resting 
beside  the  road,  yet,  so  marvellously  do  their 
uniforms  merge  into  the  landscape  that,  had 
not  my  attention  been  called  to  them,  I  should 
have  passed  them  by  unnoticed.  The  uniform 
of  the  Italian  officer  is  of  precisely  the  same 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE  79 

cut  and  apparently  of  the  same  material  as 
that  of  the  men,  and  as  the  former  not  infre- 
quently dispenses  with  the  badges  of  rank,  it 
is  often  difficult  to  distinguish  an  officer  from 
a  private.  The  Italian  officers,  particularly 
those  of  the  cavalry  regiments,  have  always 
been  among  the  smartest  in  Europe,  but  the 
gorgeous  uniforms  which,  in  the  happy,  care- 
free days  before  the  war,  added  such  brilliant 
notes  of  color  to  the  scenes  on  the  Corso  and 
in  the  Cascine,  have  been  replaced  by  a  dress 
which  is  as  simple  as  it  is  serviceable. 

The  Italian  Government  has  a  stern  objec- 
tion to  wasteful  or  unnecessary  expenditure, 
and  all  the  costly  and  superfluous  trimmings 
so  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  military  have  been 
ruthlessly  pruned.  But  economy  is  not  insisted 
upon  at  the  expense  of  efficiency.  Nothing 
is  refused  or  stinted  that  is  necessary  to  keep 
the  soldiers  in  good  health  or  that  will  add  to 
the  efficiency  of  the  great  fighting-machine. 
But  the  war  is  proving  a  heavy  financial  strain 
for  Italy  and  she  is  determined  not  to  waste 


SO  ITALY    AT    WAR 

on  it  a  single  soldo  more  than  she  can  possibly 
help.  On  the  French  and  British  fronts  staff- 
officers  are  constantly  dashing  to  and  fro  in 
motor-cars  on  errands  of  more  or  less  impor- 
tance. But  you  see  nothing  of  that  sort  in 
the  Italian  war  zone.  The  Comando  Supremo 
can,  of  course,  have  all  the  motor-cars  it  wants, 
but  it  discourages  their  use  except  in  cases  of 
necessity.  The  officers  are  instructed  that, 
whenever  they  can  travel  by  railway  without 
detriment  to  the  interests  of  the  service,  they 
are  expected  to  do  so,  for  the  trains  are  in 
operation  to  within  a  few  miles  of  the  front 
and  with  astonishing  regularity,  whereas  tires 
and  gasolene  cost  money.  Returning  at  night- 
fall from  the  front  to  Udine,  we  were  nearly 
always  stopped  by  officers — majors,  colonels, 
and  once  by  a  general — who  would  ask  us  to 
give  them  a  lift  into  town.  It  has  long  been 
the  fashion  among  foreigners  to  think  of  Ital- 
ians, particularly  those  of  the  upper  class,  as 
late-rising,  easy-going,  and  not  particularly  in 
love  with  work — a  sort  of  dolce  far  niente 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE  81 

people.  But  the  war  has  shown  how  unsafe  are 
such  generalizations.  There  is  no  harder 
worker  on  any  front  than  the  Italian  officer. 
Even  the  highest  staff-officers  are  at  their  desks 
by  eight  and  frequently  by  seven.  Though  it 
is  easier  to  get  from  the  Italian  front  to  Milan 
or  Florence  than  it  is  to  get  from  Verdun  to 
Paris,  or  from  the  Somme  to  London,  one  sees 
little  of  the  week-end  travelling  so  common  on 
the  British  front.  Officers  in  the  war  zone  are 
entitled  to  fifteen  days'  leave  of  absence  a  year, 
and  from  this  rule  there  are  no  deviations. 

Through  the  mud  we  came  to  the  Judrio, 
which  marked  the  line  of  the  old  frontier.  We 
crossed  the  river  by  a  pontoon  bridge,  for  the 
Austrians  had  destroyed  the  other  in  their 
retreat. 

"We  are  in  Austria  now,  I  suppose?"  I  re- 
marked. "In  Italia  Redenta,"  my  companion 
corrected  me.  "This  region  has  always  been 
Italian  in  everything  but  name,  and  now  it  is 
Italian  in  name  also."  The  occupation  by  the 
Italian  troops,  at  the  very  outset  of  the  war,. 


82  ITALY   AT    WAR 

of  this  wedge  of  territory  between  the  Judrio 
and  the  Isonzo,  with  Monf  alcone,  Cervignano, 
Cormons,  Gradisca — old  Italian  towns  all — did 
much  to  give  the  Italian  people  confidence  in 
the  efficiency  of  their  armies  and  the  ability  of 
their  generals. 

Now  the  roads  were  filled  with  the  enormous 
equipment  of  an  army  advancing.  Every  vil- 
lage swarmed  with  gray  soldiers.  We  passed 
interminable  processions  of  motor-lorries,  mule- 
carts,  trucks,  and  wagons  piled  high  with 
hay,*  lumber,  wine-casks,  flour,  shells,  barbed 
wire;  boxes  of  ammunition;  pontoon-trains, 
balloon  outfits,  searchlights  mounted  on  motor- 
trucks, wheeled  blacksmith  shops,  wheeled  post- 
offices,  field-kitchens;  beef  and  mutton  on  the 
hoof;  mammoth  howitzers  and  siege  guns 
hauled  by  panting  tractors ;  creaking,  clanking 
field-batteries,  and  bright-eyed,  brown-skinned, 
green-caped  infantry,  battalions,  regiments, 

*  I  was  told  by  a  British  general  that  thousands  of  tiny  steel 
prongs  had  been  discovered  in  baled  hay  brought  from  America. 
They  were  evidently  put  there  by  German  sympathizers  in  the 
Waited  States  with  the  object  of  lolling  the  Allies'  horses. 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF   EUROPE          83 

brigades  of  them  plodding  along  under  slanting 
linej  of  steel.  All  the  resources  of  Italy  seemed 
crowding  up  to  make  good  the  recent  gains  and 
to  make  ready  for  the  next  push.  One  has  to 
see  a  great  army  on  the  march  to  appreciate 
how  stupendous  is  the  task  of  supplying  with 
food  the  hungry  men  and  the  hungrier  guns, 
and  how  it  taxes  to  the  utmost  all  the  industrial 
resources  of  a  nation. 

Under  all  this  traffic  the  roads  remained  hard 
and  smooth,  for  gangs  of  men,  with  scrapers 
and  steam-rollers  were  at  work  everywhere 
repairing  the  wear  and  tear.  This  work  is 
done  by  peasants,  who  are  too  old  for  the  army, 
middle-aged,  sturdily  built  fellows  who  perform 
their  prosaic  task  with  the  resignation  and  in- 
exhaustible patience  of  the  lower-class  Italian. 
They  are  organized  in  companies  of  a  hundred 
men  each,  called  centurias,  and  the  company 
commanders  are  called  (shades  of  the  Roman 
legions!)  centurions.  Italy  owes  much  to  these 
grajr-haired  soldiers  of  the  pick  and  shorel  who, 
woridag  in  heat  and  «old,  in  snow  and  rain, 


84.  ITALY    AT    WAR 

and  frequently  under  Austrian  fire,  have  made 
it  possible  for  the  armies  to  advance  and  for 
food  to  be  sent  forward  for  the  men  and  ammu- 
nition for  the  guns. 

When  this  war  is  over  Italy  will  find  herself 
with  better  roads,  and  more  of  them,  than  she 
ever  had  before.  The  hundreds  of  miles  of 
splendid  highways  which  have  been  built  by 
the  army  in  the  Trentino,  in  the  Carnia,  and  in 
Cadore  will  open  up  districts  of  extraordinary 
beauty  which  have  hitherto  been  inaccessible  to 
the  touring  motorist.  The  Italians  have  been 
fortunate  in  having  an  inexhaustible  supply  of 
road-building  material  close  at  hand,  for  the 
mountains  are  solid  road  metal  and  in  the 
plains  one  has  only  to  scratch  the  soil  to  find 
gravel.  The  work  of  the  road-builders  on  the 
Upper  Isonzo  resembles  a  vast  suburban  de- 
velopment, for  the  smooth  white  highways 
which  zigzag  in  long,  easy  gradients  up  the 
mountain  slopes  are  bordered  on  the  inside  by 
stone-paved  gutters  and  on  the  outside,  where 
the  precipice  falls  sheer  away,  by  cut  stone 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE  ** 

guard-posts.  So  extensive  and  substantial  are 
these  improvements  that  one  instinctively  looks 
for  a  real-estate  dealer's  sign:  "This  beautiful 
lot  can  be  yours  for  twenty-five  dollars  down 
and  ten  dollars  a  month  for  a  year."  Climb- 
ing higher,  the  roads  become  steeper  and  nar- 
rower and,  because  of  the  heavy  rains,  very 
highly  crowned,  with  frequent  right-angle  and 
hair-pin  turns.  Here  a  skid  or  a  side-slip  or 
the  failure  of  your  brakes  is  quite  likely  to  bring 
your  career  to  an  abrupt  and  unpleasant  ter- 
mination. To  motor  along  one  of  these  military 
mountain  highways  when  it  is  slippery  from 
rain  is  as  nerve-trying  as  walking  on  a  shingled 
roof  with  smooth-soled  shoes.  At  one  point  on 
the  Upper  Isonzo  there  wasn't  enough  room 
between  our  outer  wheels  and  the  edge  of  the 
precipice  for  a  starved  cat  to  pass. 

Now  we  were  well  within  the  danger  zone. 
I  knew  it  by  the  screens  of  woven  reeds  and 
grass  matting  which  had  been  erected  along 
one  side  of  the  road  in  order  to  protect  the 


86  ITALY    AT    WAR 

troops  and  transport  using  that  road  from 
being  seen  by  the  Austrian  observers  and 
shelled  by  the  Austrian  guns.  Practically  all 
of  the  roads  on  the  Italian  side  of  the  front  are, 
remember,  under  direct  observation  by  the 
Austrians.  In  fact,  they  command  everything. 
Everywhere  they  are  above  the  Italians.  From 
the  observatories  which  they  have  established 
on  every  peak  they  can  see  through  their 
powerful  telescopes  what  is  transpiring  down 
on  the  plain  as  readily  as  though  they  were  cir- 
cling above  it  in  an  airplane.  As  a  result  of  the 
extraordinary  advantage  which  the  Austrians 
enjoy  in  this  respect,  it  has  been  found  neces- 
sary to  screen  certain  of  the  roads  not  only  on 
both  sides  but  above,  so  that  in  places  the  traf- 
fic passes  for  miles  through  literal  tunnels  of 
matting.  This  road  masking  is  a  simple  form 
of  the  art  of  concealment  to  which  the  French 
have  given  the  name  "camouflage"  which  has 
been  developed  to  an  extraordinary  degree  on 
the  Western  Front.  That  the  Italians  have 
not  made  a  greater  use  of  it  is  due,  no  doubt, 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE  87 

to  th'e  wholly  different  conditions  under  which 
they  are  fighting. 

Now  the  crowded  road  that  we  were  follow- 
ing turned  sharply  into  a  narrow  valley,  down 
which  a  small  river  twisted  and  turned  on  its 
way  to  the  sea.  Though  the  Italian  positions 
ran  along  the  top  of  the  hill  slope  just  above 
us,  and  though  less  than  a  thousand  yards 
away  were  the  Austrian  trenches,  that  valley, 
for  many  miles,  was  literally  crawling  with  men 
and  horses  and  guns.  Indeed  it  was  difficult 
to  make  myself  believe  that  we  were  within  easy 
range  of  the  enemy  and  that  at  any  instant  a 
shell  might  fall  upon  that  teeming  hillside  and 
burst  with  the  crash  that  scatters  death. 

Despite  the  champagne-cork  popping  of  the 
rifles  and  the  basso  prof  undo  of  the  guns,  it  was 
a  scene  of  ordered,  yes,  almost  peaceful  in- 
dustry which  in  no  way  suggested  war  but  re- 
minded me,  rather,  of  the  Panama  Canal  at  the 
busiest  period  of  its  construction  (I  have  used 
the  simile  before,  but  I  use  it  again  because  I 
know  none  better) ,  of  the  digging  of  the  New 


88  ITALY    AT    WAR 

York  subway,  of  the  laying  of  a  transcontinen- 
tal railway,  of  the  building  of  the  dam  at 
Assuan.  Trenches  which  had  recently  been 
captured  from  the  Austrians  were  being  cleared 
and  renovated  and  new  trenches  were  being 
dug,  roads  were  being  repaired,  a  battery  of 
monster  howitzers  was  being  moved  into  ingeni- 
ously concealed  positions,  a  whole  system  of 
narrow-gauge  railway  was  being  laid  down, 
enormous  quantities  of  stores  were  being  un- 
loaded from  wagons  and  lorries  and  neatly 
stacked,  soldiers  were  building  great  water- 
tanks  on  stilts,  like  those  at  railway  sidings, 
giant  shells  were  being  lowered  from  trucks  and 
flat-cars  by  means  of  cranes ;  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  saws  and  hammers  a  city  of  wooden 
huts  was  springing  up  on  the  reverse  slope  of 
the  hill  as  though  at  the  wave  of  a  magician's 
wand. 

As  I  watched  with  fascinated  eyes  this  scene 
of  activity,  as  city  idlers  watch  the  laborers  at 
work  in  a  cellar  excavation,  a  shell  burst  on 
the  crowded  hillside,  perhaps  five  hundred 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE  89 

yards  away.  There  was  a  crash  like  the  ex- 
plosion of  a  giant  cannon-cracker;  the  ground 
leaped  into  flame  and  dust.  A  few  minutes 
afterward  I  saw  an  ambulance  go  tearing  up 
the  road. 

"Just  a  chance  shot,"  said  the  staff-officer 
who  accompanied  me.  "This  valley  is  one  of 
the  few  places  on  our  front  which  is  Invisible 
to  the  Austrian  observers.  That's  why  we 
hare  so  many  troops  in  here.  The  Austrian 
aviators  could  spot  what  is  going  on  here,  of 
course,  but  our  fliers  and  our  anti-aircraft  bat- 
teries have  been  making  things  so  hot  for  them 
lately  that  they're  not  troubling  us  much. 
That's  the  great  thing  in  this  game — to  keep 
control  of  the  air.  If  the  Austrian  airmen  were 
able  to  get  over  this  valley  and  direct  the  fire 
of  their  guns  we  wouldn't  be  able  to  stay  here 
an  hour." 

My  companion  had  thought  that  it  might 
be  possible  to  follow  the  road  down  the  valley 
to  Monfalcone  and  the  sea,  and  so  it  would 
hare  been  had  the  weather  continued  misty  and 


90  ITALY   AT   WAR 

rainy.  But  the  sun  came  out  brightly  just  as 
we  reached  the  beginning  of  an  exposed  stretch 
of  the  road;  an  Austrian  observer,  peering 
through  a  telescope  set  up  in  a  monastery  on 
top  of  a  mountain  ten  miles  away,  caught  sight 
of  the  hurrying  gray  insect  which  was  our  car ; 
he  rang  up  on  the  telephone  a  certain  battery 
and  spoke  a  few  words  to  the  battery  com- 
mander ;  and  an  instant  later  on  the  road  along 
which  we  were  travelling  Austrian  shells  began 
to  fall.  Shells  being  expensive,  that  little  epi- 
sode cost  the  Emperor-King  several  hundred 
kronen,  we  figured.  As  for  us,  it  merely  inter- 
rupted a  most  interesting  morning's  ride. 

Leaving  the  car  in  the  shelter  of  a  hill,  we 
toiled  up  a  steep  and  stony  slope  to  a  point  from 
which  I  was  able  to  get  an  admirable  idea  of 
the  general  lay  of  Italy's  Eastern  Front.  Com- 
ing toward  me  was  the  Isonzo — a  bright  blue 
stream  the  width  of  the  Thames  at  New  Lon- 
don— which,  happy  at  escaping  from  its  gloomy 
mountain  defile,  went  rioting  over  the  plain 
in  a  great  westward  curve.  Turning,  I  could 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE  91 

catch  a  glimpse,  through  a  notch  in  the  hills,, 
of  the  white  towers  and  pink  roofs  of  Monfal- 
cone  against  the  Adriatic's  changeless  blue. 
To  the  east  of  Monfalcone  rose  the  red  heights 
of  the  Carso,  the  barren  limestone  plateau 
which  stretches  from  the  Isonzo  south  into 
Istria.  And 'beyond  the  Carso  I  could  trace 
the  whole  curve  of  the  mountains  from  in  front 
of  Trieste  up  past  Gorizia  and  away  to  the 
Carnia.  The  Italian  front,  I  might  add,  divides 
itself  into  four  sectors:  the  Isonzo,  the  Carnia 
and  C  adore,  the  Trentino,  and  the  Alpine. 

Directly  below  us,  not  more  than  a  kilometre 
away,  was  a  village  which  the  Austrians  were 
shelling.  Through  our  glasses  we  could  see 
the  effects  of  the  bombardment  as  plainly  as 
though  we  had  been  watching  a  football  game 
from  the  upper  tier  of  seats  in  the  Yale  Bowl. 
They  were  using  a  considerable  number  of  guns 
of  various  calibers  and  the  crash  of  the  burst- 
ing shells  was  almost  incessant.  A  shell  struck 
a  rather  pretentious  building,  which  was  evi- 
dently the  town  hall;  there  was  a  burst  of 


92  ITALY    AT    WAR 

flame,  and  a  torrent  of  bricks  and  beams  and 
tiles  shot  skyward  amid  a  geyser  of  green- 
brown  smoke.  Another  projectile  chose  as  its 
target  the  tall  white  campanile,  which  suddenly 
slumped  into  the  street,  a  heap  of  brick  and 
plaster.  Now  and  again  we  caught  glimpses 
of  tiny  figures — Italian  soldiers,  most  likely — 
scuttling  for  shelter.  Occasionally  the  Aus- 
trians  would  vary  their  rain  of  heavy  projec- 
tiles with  a  sort  of  shell  that  went  bang  and 
released  a  fleecy  cloud  of  smoke  overhead  and 
then  dropped  a  parcel  of  high  explosive  that 
burst  on  the  ground.  It  was  curious  to  think 
that  the  guns  from  which  these  shells  came  were 
cunningly  hidden  away  in  nooks  and  glens  on 
the  other  side  of  that  distant  range  of  hills,  that 
the  men  serving  the  guns  had  little  if  any  idea 
what  they  were  firing  at,  and  that  the  bombard- 
ment was  being  directed  and  controlled  by  an 
officer  seated  comfortably  at  the  small  end  of 
a  telescope  up  there  on  a  mountain  top  among 
the  clouds.  Yet  such  is  modern  war.  It  used 
to  be  one  of  the  artillerist's  tenets  that  his  guns 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE  93 

should  be  placed  in  a  position  with  a  "com- 
manding" range  of  view.  But  nowadays  guns 
"command"  nothing.  Instead  they  are  tucked 
away  in  gullies  and  leafy  glens  and  excavated 
gun-pits,  and  their  muzzles,  instead  of  frown- 
ing down  on  the  enemy  from  an  eminence,  stare 
blindly  skyward  from  behind  a  wall  of  hills  or 
mountains.  The  Italians  evidently  grew  tired 
of  letting  the  Austrians  have  their  way  with  the 
town,  for  presently  some  batteries  of  heavy 
guns  behind  us  came  into  action  and  their 
shells  screamed  over  our  heads.  Soon  a  brisk 
exchange  of  compliments  between  the  Italian 
and  Austrian  guns  was  going  on  over  the  shat- 
tered roofs  of  the  town.  We  did  not  remain 
overlong  on  our  hillside  and  we  were  warned 
by  the  artillery  officer  who  was  guiding  us  to 
keep  close  to  the  ground  and  well  apart,  for, 
were  the  Austrians  to  see  us  in  a  group,  using 
maps  and  field-glasses,  they  probably  would 
take  us  for  artillery  observers  and  would  send 
orer  a  violent  protest  cased  in  steel. 

On  none  of  the  European  battle-fronts  is 


94  ITALY    AT    WAR 

there  a  more  beautiful  and  impressive  journey 
than  that  from  Udine  up  to  the  Italian  posi- 
tions in  the  Carnia.  The  Carnia  sector  eon- 
nects  the  Isonzo  and  Trentino  fronts  and  forms 
a  vital  link  in  the  Italian  chain  of  defense,  for, 
were  the  Austrians  to  break  through,  they 
would  take  in  flank  and  rear  the  great  Italian 
armies  operating  on  the  two  adjacent  fronts. 
West  of  the  Carnia,  in  Cadore,  the  Italians 
are  campaigning  in  one  of  the  world's  most 
famous  playgrounds,  for,  in  the  days  before 
the  Great  War,  pleasure-seekers  from  every 
corner  of  Europe  and  America  swarmed  by 
the  tens  of  thousands  in  the  country  round 
about  Cortina  and  in  the  enchanted  valleys  of 
the  Dolomites.  But  now  great  gray  guns  are 
emplaced  in  the  shady  glens  where  the  honey- 
mooners  used  to  stroll;  on  the  terraces  of  the 
tourist  hostelries,  where,  on  summer  after- 
noons, men  in  white  flannels  and  women  in 
dainty  frocks  chattered  over  their  tea,  now 
lounge  Italian  officers  in  field  uniforms  of  gray; 
the  blare  of  dance  music  and  the  popping  of 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE  95 

champagne  corks  has  been  replaced  by  the  blare 
of  bugles  and  the  popping  of  rifles. 

If  you  have  ever  gone,  in  a  single  day,  from 
the  sunlit  orange  groves  of  Pasadena  up  to 
the  snow-crowned  peaks  of  the  Coast  Range, 
you  will  have  as  good  an  idea  as  I  can  give  you 
of  the  journey  from  the  Isonzo  up  to  the  Car- 
nia.  Down  on  the  Carso  the  war  is  being  waged 
under  a  sky  of  molten  brass  and  in  summer 
the  winds  which  sweep  that  arid  plateau  are 
like  blasts  from  an  open  furnace-door.  The 
soldiers  fighting  in  the  Carnia,  on  the  other 
hand,  not  infrequently  wear  coats  of  white  fur 
to  protect  them  from  the  cold  and  to  render 
them  invisible  against  the  expanses  of  snow. 
When  I  was  on  the  Italian  front  they  told  me 
an  incident  of  this  mountain  warfare.  There 
was  desperate  fighting  for  the  possession  of  a 
few  yards  of  mountain  trenches  and  a  half -bat- 
talion of  Austrian  Jaegers — nearly  five  hun- 
dred men — were  enfiladed  by  machine-gun  fire 
and  wiped  out.  That  night  there  was  a  heavy 
snowfall  and  the  Austrian  corpses  sprawled 


96  ITALY    AT    WAR 

upon  the  mountainside  were  soon  buried  deep 
beneath  the  fleecy  flakes.  The  long  winter 
wore  along,  the  war  pursued  its  dreary  course, 
to  five  hundred  Austrian  homes  the  Austrian 
War  Office  sent  a  brief  message  that  the  hus- 
band or  son  or  brother  had  been  "reported 
missing."  Then  the  spring  came,  the  snow 
melted  from  the  mountainsides,  and  the  horri- 
fied Italians  looked  on  the  five  hundred  Aus- 
trians,  frozen  stiff,  as  meat  is  frozen  in  a  re- 
frigerator, in  the  same  attitudes  in  which  they 
had  died  months  before. 

With  countless  hair-pin,  hair-raising  turns, 
our  road  wound  upward,  bordered  on  one  hand 
by  the  brinks  of  precipices,  on  the  other  by  bare 
walls  of  rock.  It  was  a  smooth  road,  splendidly 
built,  but  steep  and  terrifyingly  narrow — so 
narrow  in  places  that  it  was  nothing  more  than 
a  shelf  blasted  from  the  sheer  face  of  the  cliff. 
Twice,  meeting  motor-lorries  downward  bound, 
we  had  to  back  along  that  narrow  shelf,  with 
our  outer  wheels  on  the  brink  of  emptiness, 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE  97 

until  we  came  to  a  spot  where  there  was  room 
to  pass.  It  was  a  ticklish  business. 

At  one  point  a  mountain  torrent  leaped  from 
the  cliff  into  the  depths  below.  But  the  water- 
power  was  not  permitted  to  go  to  waste ;  it  had 
been  skilfully  harnessed  and  was  being  used 
to  run  a  completely  equipped  machine-shop 
where  were  brought  for  repair  everything  from 
motor-trucks  to  machine-guns.  That  was  one 
of  the  things  that  impressed  me  most — the 
mechanical  ability  of  the  Italians.  The  rail- 
ways, cable  -  ways,  machine  -  shops,  bridges, 
roads,  reservoirs,  concrete  works  that  they  have 
built,  more  often  than  not  in  the  face  of  what 
would  appear  to  be  unsurmountable  difficulties, 
prove  them  to  be  a  nation  of  engineers. 

Up  to  the  heights  toward  which  we  were 
climbing  so  comfortably  and  quickly  in  a 
motor-car  there  was  before  the  war,  so  I  was 
told,  nothing  but  a  mule-path.  Now  there  is 
this  fine  military  road,  so  ingeniously  graded 
and  zigzagged  that  two-ton  motor-trucks  can 
now  go  with  ease  where  before  a  donkey  had 


98  ITALY   AT   WAR 

difficulty  in  finding  a  footing.     When  these 
small  and  handy  motor-trucks  come  to  a  point 
where  it  is  no  longer  possible  for  them  to  find 
traction,  their  loads  are  transferred  to  the  re- 
markable wire-rope  railways,  or  telef ericas,  as 
they  are  called,  which  have  made  possible  this 
campaign  in  cloudland.     Similar  systems  are 
in  use,  all  over  the  world,  for  conveying  goods 
up  the  sides  of  mountains  and  across  chasms. 
A  wire  rope  running  over  a  drum  at  each  side 
of  the  chasm  which  has  to  be  crossed  forms  a 
double  line  of  overhead  railway.     Suspended 
on  grooved  wheels  from  this  overhead  wire  are 
"cars"  consisting  of  shallow  iron  trays  about 
the  length  and  width  of  coffins,  one  car  going 
up  as  the  other  comes  down.    The  floors  of  the 
cars  are  perforated  so  as  to  permit  the  draining 
off  of  water  or  blood — for  men  wounded  in  the 
mountain  fighting  are  frequently  brought  down 
to  the  hospitals  in  them — and  the  sides  are  of 
latticework,  and,  I  might  add,  quite  unneces- 
sarily low.    Nor  is  the  prospective  passenger 
reassured  by  being  told  that  there  have  been 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE          99 

several  cases  where  soldiers,  suddenly  overcome 
by  vertigo,  have  thrown  themselves  out  while 
in  mid-air.  If  the  cars  are  properly  loaded,  and 
if  there  is  not  a  high  wind  blowing,  the  t ele- 
f erica  is  about  as  safe  as  most  other  modes  of 
conveyance,  but  should  the  cars  have  been  care- 
lessly loaded,  or  should  a  strong  wind  be  blow- 
ing, there  is  considerable  danger  of  their  com- 
ing into  collision  as  they  pass.  In  such  an  event 
there  would  be  a  very  fair  chance  of  the  pas- 
senger spattering  up  the  rocks  a  thousand  feet 
or  so  below.  There  is  still  another,  though  a 
rather  remote  possibility:  that  of  being  shelled 
while  in  mid-air,  for  certain  of  the  telef ericas 
run  within  view  of  the  Austrian  positions.  And 
sometimes  the  power  which  winds  the  drum 
gives  out  and  the  car  and  its  passengers  are 
temporarily  marooned  in  space.  Aviation, 
motor-racing,  mountain-climbing,  big-game 
hwHtflig,  all  seem  commonplace  and  tame 
compared  with  the  sensation  of  swinging  help- 
les$/rjr  fa.  a  shallow  bathtub  over  half  a  mile  of 
while  an  Austrian  battery  endeavors 


100  ITALY   AT   WAR 

to  pot  you  with  shrapnel,  very  much  as  a  small 
boy  throws  stones  at  a  scared  cat  clinging  to  a 
limb. 

Yet  over  these  slender  wires  has  been  trans- 
ported an  army,  with  its  vast  quantities  of  food, 
stores,  and  ammunition,  and  by  the  same 
method  of  transportation  have  been  sent  back 
the  wounded.  Without  this  ingenious  device 
it  is  doubtful  if  the  campaign  in  the  High  Alps 
could  ever  have  been  fought.  But  the  cables, 
strong  though  they  are,  are  yet  too  weak  to 
bear  the  weight  of  the  heavy  guns,  some  of 
them  weighing  forty  and  fifty  tons,  which*  the 
Italians  have  put  into  action  on  the  highest 
peaks.  So,  by  the  aid  of  ropes  and  levers  and 
pulleys  and  hundreds  of  brawny  backs  and 
straining  arms,  these  monster  pieces  have  been 
hauled  up  slopes  as  steep  as  that  of  the  Great 
Pyramid,  have  been  hoisted  up  walls  of  rock 
as  sheer  and  high  as  those  of  the  Flatiron 
Building.  You  question  this?  Well,  there 
they  are,  great  eight  and  nine  inch  monsters, 
high  above  the  highest  of  the  wire  roads,  one 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE         101 

of  them  that  I  know  of  at  a  height  of  ten  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  sea.  There  is  no  doubting 
it,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  for  they  speak  for 
themselves — as  the  Austrians  have  found  to 
their  cost. 

The  most  advanced  positions  in  the  Carnia, 
as  in  the  Trentino,  are  amid  the  eternal  snows. 
Here  the  guns  are  emplaced  in  ice  caverns 
which  can  be  reached  only  through  tunnels  cut 
through  the  drifts;  here  the  men  spend  their 
days  wrapped  in  shaggy  furs,  their  faces 
smeared  with  grease  as  a  protection  from  the 
stinging  blasts,  and  their  nights  in  holes  bur- 
rowed in  the  snow,  like  the  igloos  of  Esqui- 
maux. On  no  front,  not  on  the  sun-scorched 
plains  of  Mesopotamia,  nor  in  the  frozen  Ma- 
zurian  marshes,  nor  in  the  blood-soaked  mud 
of  Flanders,  does  the  fighting  man  lead  so 
arduous  an  existence  as  up  here  on  the  roof 
of  the  world.  I  remember  standing  with  an 
Italian  officer  in  an  observatory  in  the  lower 
mountains.  The  powerful  telescope  was 


102  ITALY    AT    WAR 

trained  on  the  snow-covered  summit  of  one 
of  the  higher  peaks. 

"Do  you  see  that  little  black  speck  on  the 
snow  at  the  very  top?"  the  officer  asked  me. 

I  told  him  that  I  did. 

"That  is  one  of  our  positions,"  he  continued. 
"It  is  held  by  a  lieutenant  and  thirty  Alpini. 
I  have  just  received  word  that,  as  the  result  of 
yesterday's  snow-storm,  our  communications 
with  them  have  been  cut  off.  We  will  not  be 
able  to  relieve  them,  or  get  supplies  to  them, 
much  before  next  April." 

And  it  was  then  only  the  middle  of  De- 
cember ! 

In  the  Carnia  and  on  the  Upper  Isonzo  one 
finds  the  anomaly  of  first-line  trenches  which 
are  perfectly  safe  from  attack.  I  visited  such 
a  position.  Through  a  loophole  I  got  a  little 
framed  picture  of  the  Austrian  trenches  not  five 
hundred  yards  away,  and  above  them,  cut  in 
the  mountainside,  the  square  black  openings 
•within  which  lurked  the  Austrian  guns.  Yet 
we  were  as  safe  from  anything  save  artillery 


ON    THE    ROOF    OF    EUROPE         103 

fire  as  though  we  were  in  Mars,  for  between 
the  Italian  trenches  and  the  Austrian  inter- 
vened a  chasm  half  a  thousand  feet  deep  and 
with  walls  as  steep  and  smooth  as  the  side  of  a 
house.  The  narrow  strip  of  valley  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  chasm  was  a  sort  of  no  man's  land, 
where  forays,  skirmishes,  and  all  manner  of 
desperate  adventures  took  place  nightly  be- 
tween patrols  of  Jaegers  and  Alpini. 

As  with  my  field-glasses  I  was  sweeping  the 
turmoil  of  trench-scarred  mountains  which  lay 
spread,  below  me,  like  a  map  in  bas-relief,  an 
Austrian  battery  quite  suddenly  set  up  a  deaf- 
ening clamor,  and  on  a  hillside,  miles  away,  I 
could  see  its  shells  bursting  in  clouds  of  smoke 
shot  through  with  flame.  They  looked  like 
gigantic  white  peonies  breaking  suddenly  into 
bloom.  The  racket  of  the  guns  awoke  the 
most  extraordinary  echoes  in  the  mountains. 
It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  it  was  not 
thunder.  Range  after  range  caught  up  the 
echoes  of  that  bombardment  and  passed  them 
on  until  it  seemed  as  though  they  must  have 


104  ITALY    AT    WAR 

reached  Vienna.  For  half  an  hour*  perhaps, 
the  cannonade  continued,  and  then,  from  an 
Italian  position  somewhere  above  and  behind 
us,  came  a  mighty  bellow  which  drowned  out 
all  other  sounds.  It  was  the  angry  voice  of 
Italy  bidding  the  Austrians  be  still. 


CHAPTER  iv 

THE    ROAD    TO   TRIESTE 

IN  order  to  appraise  the  Italian  operations 
on  the  Carso  at  their  true  value,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  go  back  to  May,  1916,  when  the  Arch- 
duke Frederick  launched  his  great  offensive 
from  the  Trentino.  Now  it  must  be  kept  con- 
stantly in  mind,  as  I  have  tried  to  emphasize 
in  preceding  chapters,  that  when  the  war 
opened,  the  Italians  had  always  to  go  up  while 
the  Austrians  needed  only  to  come  down.  The 
latter,  intrenched  high  on  that  tremendous  nat- 
ural rampart  formed  by  the  Rhaetian  and 
Tyrolean  Alps,  the  Dolomites,  the  <Carnic, 
Julian,  and  Dinaric  ranges,  had  an  immense 
superiority  over  their  enemy  on  the  plains 
below.  The  Austrian  offensive  in  the  Trentino 
was  dictated  by  four  reasons:  first,  to  divert 
the  Italians  from  their  main  objective,  Trieste; 
second,  to  lessen  the  pressure  which  General 

105 


106  ITALY   AT   WAR 

Cadorna  was  exerting  against  the  Austrian 
lines  on  the  Isonzo ;  third,  to  smash  through  to 
Vicenza  and  Verona,  thus  cutting  off  and  com- 
pelling the  capitulation  of  the  Italian  armies 
operating  in  Venetia;  and  fourth,  to  so  thor- 
oughly discourage  the  Italians  that  they  would 
consent  to  a  separate  peace. 

The  story  of  how  this  ambitious  plan  was 
foiled  is  soon  told.  By  the  first  week  in  May 
the  Austrians  had  massed  upon  the  Trentino 
front  a  force  of  very  nearly  400,000  men  with 
2,000  guns.  Included  in  this  tremendous  ac- 
cumulation of  artillery  were  26  batteries  of 
12-inch  guns  and  several  of  the  German,, 
giants,  the  famous  42-centimetre  pieces,  which 
brought  down  the  pride  of  Antwerp  and 
Namur.  By  the  middle  of  May  everything 
was  ready  for  the  onset  to  begin,  and  this  ava- 
lanche of  soldiery  came  rolling  down  the  Asiago 
plateau,  between  the  Adige  and  the  Brenta. 
Below  them,  basking  in  the  sunshine,  stretched 
the  alluring  plains  of  Venetia,  with  their 
wealth,  their  women,  and  their  wine.  Pounded 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  107 

by    an    immensely    superior    artillery,    over- 
whelmed by  wave  upon  wave  of  infantry,  the 
Italians  sullenly  fell  back,  leaving  the  greater 
part  of  the  Sette  Communi  plateau  and  the 
upper  portion  of  the  Brenta  valley  in  the  hands 
of  the  Austrians.    At  the  beginning  of  June 
a  cloud  of  despondency  and  gloom  hung  over 
Italy,  and  men  went  about  with  sober  faces, 
for  it  seemed  all  but  certain  that  the  enemy 
would  succeed  in  breaking  through  to  Vicenza, 
and  by  cutting  the  main  east-and-west  line  of 
railway,  would  force  the  armies  operating  on 
the  Isonzo  and  in  the  Carnia  to  surrender.    But 
the  soldiers  of  the  Army  of  the  Trentino, 
though  outnumbered  in  men  and  guns,  deter- 
mined that  the  Austrians  should  pay  a  stag- 
gering price  for  every  yard  of  ground  they 
gained.    They  fought  as  must  have  fought  their 
ancestors  of  the  Roman  legions.    And,  thanks 
to  their  tenacity  and  pluck,  they  held  their 
opponents  on  the  five-yard  line.     Then,  just 
in  the  nick  of  time,  the  whistle  blew.    The  game 
was  over.    The  Austrians  had  to  hurry  home. 


108  ITALY    AT    WAR 

They  had  staked  everything  on  a  sudden  and 
overwhelming  onslaught  by  which  they  hoped 
to  smash  the  Italian  defense  and  demoralize 
the  Italian  armies  in  time  to  permit  at  least 
half  their  eighteen  divisions  and  nearly  all  of 
their  heavy  guns  being  withdrawn  in  a  few 
weeks  and  rushed  across  Austria  to  the  Galician 
front,  where  they  were  desperately  needed  to 
stay  the  Russian  advance. 

By  the  beginning  of  the  last  week  in  June 
the  Austrian  General  Staff,  recognizing  that  its 
plan  for  the  overwhelming  of  northern  Italy 
had  failed  disastrously,  issued  orders  for  a  gen- 
eral retreat.  The  Austrians  had  planned  to 
fall  back  on  the  positions  which  had  been  pre- 
pared in  advance  in  the  mountains  and  to  estab- 
lish themselves,  with  greatly  reduced  numbers, 
on  this  practically  impregnable  line,  while  the 
transfer  of  the  divisions  intended  for  the  Car- 
pathians was  effected.  But  General  Cadorna 
had  no  intention  of  letting  the  Austrians  escape 
so  easily.  In  less  than  a  week  he  had  collected 
from  the  garrisons  and  training  camps  and 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  109 

reserve  battalions  an  army  of  500,000  men.  It 
was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  achievements 
of  the  war.  From  all  parts  of  Italy  he  rushed 
those  half  million  men  to  the  Trentino  front  by 
train — and  despite  the  immense  strain  put  upon 
the  Italian  railways  by  the  rapid  movement  of 
so  great  a  body  of  troops,  tne  regular  passenger 
service  was  suspended  for  only  three  days.  (At 
that  same  time  the  American  Government  was 
attempting  to  concentrate  a  force  of  only 
150,000  men  on  the  Mexican  border;  a  com- 
parison of  Italian  and  American  efficiency  is 
instructive.)  He  formed  that  army  into  bri- 
gades and  divisions,  each  complete  with  staff 
and  supply  trains  and  ammunition  columns. 
He  organized  fresh  bases  of  supply,  including 
water,  of  which  there  is  none  on  the  Asiago 
plateau.  He  provided  the  stupendous  quantity 
of  stores  and  ammunition  and  equipment  and 
transport  required  by  such  an  army.  (It  is 
related  how  Cadorna's  Chief  of  Transport 
wired  the  Fiat  Company  of  Turin  that  he  must 
have  545  additional  motor-trucks  within  a  week, 


110  ITALY   AT   WAR 

and  how  that  great  company  responded  by  de- 
livering in  the  time  specified  546 — one  over  for 
good  measure.)  Almost  in  a  night  he  trans- 
formed, the  rude  mule-paths  leading  up  onto 
the  plateau  into  splendid  military  roads,  wide 
enough  and  hard  enough  to  bear  the  tremen- 
dous traffic  to  which  they  were  suddenly  sub- 
jected. And  finally  he  rushed  his  troops  up 
those  roads  in  motor-cars  and  motor-trucks, 
afoot  and  on  horse-back  and  astride  of  donkeys 
and  flung  them  against  the  Austrians.  So 
sudden  and  savage  was  the  Italian  onset  that 
the  Austrians  did  not  dare  to  spare  a  man  or 
gun  for  their  Eastern  Front — and  meanwhile 
the  Muscovite  armies  were  pressing  on  toward 
the  Dniester.  It  is  no  exaggeration  to  assert 
that  the  success  of  Brussiloff's  offensive  in 
Galicia  was  due  in  no  small  measure  to  the 
Italian  counter-offensive  in  the  Trentino.  That 
adventure  cost  Austria  at  least  100,000  dead 
and  wounded  men. 

But  not  for  a  moment  did  the  Italians  permit 
the  Austrian  offensive  in  the  Trentino  to  dis- 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  111 

tract  them  from  their  real  objectives :  Gorizia, 
the  Carso,  and  Trieste.  The  "military  ex- 
perts," who  from  desks  in  newspaper  offices 
tell  the  public  how  campaigns  ought  to  be  con- 
ducted, had  announced  confidently  that  Italy 
had  so  taxed  her  strength  by  her  efforts  in  the 
Trentino  that,  for  many  months  at  least,  noth- 
ing need  be  expected  from  her.  But  Italy 
showed  the  public  that  the  "military  experts" 
didn't  know  what  they  were  talking  about,  for 
in  little  more  than  a  month  after  the  Italian 
guns  had  ceased  to  growl  amid  the  Tyrolean 
peaks  and  passes,  they  were  raining  a  storm  of 
steel  upon  the  Austrian  positions  on  the  Carso. 
Imagine  a  vast  limestone  plateau,  varying 
in  height  from  700  to  2,500  feet,  which  is  as 
treeless  and  waterless  as  the  deserts  of  Chihua- 
hua, as  desolate  and  forbidding  as  the  Dakota 
Bad  Lands,  with  a  surface  as  torn  and  twisted 
and  jagged  as  the  lava  beds  of  Utah,  and  with 
a  summer  climate  like  that  of  Death  Valley 
in  July.  That  is  the  Carso.  This  great  table- 
land of  rock,  which  begins  at  Gorizia,  ap- 


112  ITALY   AT   WAR 

preaches  close  to  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic 
between  Monfalcone  and  Trieste,  and  runs 
southeastward  into  Istria,  links  the  Alpine  sys- 
tem with  the  Balkan  ranges.  Its  surface  of 
naked,  sun-flayed  rock  is  broken  here  and  there 
with  gigantic  heaps  of  piled  stone,  with  caves 
and  caverns,  with  sombre  marshes  which  some- 
times become  gloomy  and  forbidding  lakes,  and 
with  peculiar  crater-like  depressions  called  do- 
Unas }  formed  by  centuries  of  erosion.  Such 
scanty  vegetation  as  there  is  is  confined  to 
these  dolinas,  which  form  the  only  oases  in  this 
barren  and  thirsty  land.  The  whole  region  is 
swept  by  the  Bora,  a  wind  which  is  the  enemy 
alike  of  plant  and  man.  Save  for  the  lizards 
that  bask  upon  its  furnace-like  floors,  the  Carso 
is  as  lifeless  as  it  is  treeless  and  waterless.  No 
bird  and  scarcely  an  insect  can  find  nourishment 
over  vast  spaces  of  this  sun-scorched  solitude; 
even  the  hardy  mountain  grass  withers  and 
dies  of  a  broken  heart.  So  powerful  is  the  sun 
that  eggs  can  be  cooked  without  a  fire.  Metal 
objects,  such  as  rifles  and  equipment,  when  left 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  113 

exposed,  quickly  become  too  hot  to  touch.  The 
bodies  of  the  soldiers  who  fall  on  the  Carso  are 
not  infrequently  found  to  have  been  baked  hard 
and  mummified  after  lying  for  a  day  or  two  on 
that  oven-like  floor  of  stone. 

The  Carso  is  probably  the  strongest  natural 
fortress  in  the  world.  Anything  in  the  shape 
of  defensive  works  which  Nature  had  over- 
looked, the  Austrians  provided.  For  years 
before  the  war  began  the  Austrian  engineers 
were  at  work  strengthening  a  place  that  al- 
ready possessed  superlative  strength.  The 
whole  face  of  the  plateau  was  honeycombed 
with  trenches  and  tunnels  and  dugouts  and  gun 
emplacements  which  were  blasted  and  drilled 
out  of  the  solid  rock  with  machinery  similar  to 
that  used  in  driving  the  Simplon  and  the  St. 
Gothard  tunnels.  The  posts  for  the  snipers 
were  armored  with  inch-thick  plates  of  steel 
cemented  into  the  rock.  The  dotinas  were  con- 
verted into  machine-gun  pits  and  bomb-proof 
shelters.  In  one  of  these  curious  craters  I  saw 
a  dugout — it  was  really  a  subterranean  bar- 


114  ITALY    AT    WAR 

racks — electrically  lighted  and  with  neatly 
whitewashed  walls  which  had  sleeping  accom- 
modation for  a  thousand  men.  To  supply  these 
positions,  water  was  pumped  up  by  oil-engines, 
but  the  Austrians  took  care  to  destroy  the  pipe- 
lines as  they  retired. 

At  the  northern  end  of  the  Carso,  in  an  angle 
formed  by  the  junction  of  the  Wippach  and 
the  Isonzo,  the  snowy  towers  and  red-brown 
roofs  of  Gorizia  rise  above  the  foliage  of  its 
famous  gardens.  The  town,  which  resembles 
Homburg  or  Baden-Baden  and  was  a  popular 
Austrian  resort  before  the  war,  lies  in  the 
valley  of  the  Wippach  (Vippacco,  the  Italians 
call  it),  which  separates  the  Carso  from  the 
southernmost  spurs  of  the  Julian  Alps.  Down 
this  valley  runs  the  railway  leading  to  Trieste, 
Laibach,  and  Vienna.  It  will  be  seen,  there- 
fore, that  Gorizia  is  really  the  gateway  to 
Trieste,  and  a  place  of  immense  strategic  im- 
portance. 

On  the  slopes  of  the  Carso,  four  or  five  miles 
to  the  southwest  of  the  town,  rises  the  enor- 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  115 

mously  strong  position  of  Monte  San  Michele,. 
and  a  few  miles  farther  down  the  Isonzo,  the 
fortified  hill-town  of  Sagrado.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  almost  opposite  Gorizia,  are 
the  equally  strong  positions  of  Podgora  and 
Monte  Sabotino.  Their  steep  slopes  were 
slashed  with  Austrian  trenches  and  abristle 
with  guns  which  commanded  the  roads  leading 
to  the  river,  the  bridge-heads,  and  the  town. 
To  take  Gorizia  until  these  positions  had  been 
captured  was  obviously  out  of  the  question. 
Here,  as  elsewhere,  Austria  held  the  upper 
ground.  In  a  memorandum  issued  by  the  Aus- 
trian General  Staff  to  its  officers  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  operations  before  Gorizia,  the 
tremendous  advantage  of  the  Austrian  position 
was  made  quite  clear :  "We  have  to  retain  pos- 
session of  a  terrain  fortified  by  Nature.  In 
front  of  us  a  great  watercourse;  behind  us  a 
ridge  from  which  we  can  shoot  as  from  a  ten- 
story  building." 

The  difficulties  which  the  Italians  had  to 
overcome   in  their   advance   were   enormous.. 


116  ITALY    AT   WAR 

From  their  mountain  nests  the  Austrian  guns 
were  able  to  maintain  a  murderous  fire  on  the 
Italian  lines  of  communication,  thus  prevent- 
ing the  bringing  up  of  men  and  supplies.  It 
therefore  became  necessary  for  the  Italians  to 
build  new  roads  which  would  not  be  thus  ex- 
posed to  enemy  fire,  and  in  cases  where  this  was 
impossible,  the  existing  roads  were  masked  for 
miles  on  end  with  artificial  hedges  and  screens 
of  grass  matting.  In  many  places  it  was  found 
necessary  to  screen  the  roads  overhead  as  well 
as  on  the  sides,  so  that  the  Italians  could  move 
up  their  heavy  guns  without  attracting  the 
attention  of  the  enemy's  observers  stationed  on 
the  highest  mountain  peaks,  or  of  the  Austrian 
airmen.  But  this  was  not  all,  or  nearly  all.  An 
army  is  ever  a  hungry  monster,  so  slaughter- 
houses and  bakeries  and  field-kitchens,  to  say 
nothing  of  incredible  quantities  of  food-stuffs, 
had  to  be  provided.  Fighting  being  a  thirsty 
business,  it  was  necessary  to  arrange  for  piping 
up  water,  for  great  tanks  to  hold  that  water, 
and  for  water-carts,  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  117 

them,  to  peddle  it  among  the  panting  troops. 
A  prize-fighter  cannot  sleep  out  in  the  open, 
on  the  bare  ground,  and  keep  in  condition  for 
the  ring,  and  a  soldier,  who  is  likewise  a  fight- 
ing-man but  from  a  different  motive,  must  be 
made  comfortable  of  nights  if  he  is  to  keep  in 
fighting-trim.  So  millions  of  feet  of  lumber 
had  to  be  brought  up,  along  roads  already  over- 
crowded with  traffic,  and  that  lumber  had  to 
be  transformed  into  temporary  huts  and  bar- 
rackments — a  city  of  them.  But  the  prepara- 
tions did  not  end  even  there.  To  insure  the 
co-ordination  and  co-operation  of  the  various 
divisions  of  the  army,  an  elaborate  system  of 
field  telegraphs  and  telephones  had  to  be  in- 
stalled, and,  in  order  to  provide  against  the 
lines  being  cut  by  shell-fire  and  the  whole  com- 
plex organism  paralyzed,  the  wires  were  laid  in 
groups  of  four.  Then  there  had  to  be  repair- 
stations  for  the  broken  machinery,  and  other 
repair-stations — with  Red  Cross  flags  flying 
over  them — for  the  broken  men.  So  in  the 
rear  of  the  sector  where  the  Italians  planned 


118  ITALY    AT    WAR 

to  give  battle  on  a  front  of  thirty  miles,  a  series 
of  great  base  hospitals  were  established,  and, 
nearer  the  front,  a  series  of  clearing-hospitals, 
and,  still  closer  up,  field-hospitals,  and  in  the 
immediate  rear  of  the  fighting-line,  hundreds 
of  dressing-stations  and  first-aid  posts  were 
located  in  dugouts  and  bomb-proof  shelters. 
And  along  the  roads  stretched  endless  caravans 
of  gray  ambulances,  for  it  promised  to  be  a 
bloody  business.  In  other  words,  it  was  neces- 
sary, before  the  battle  could  be  fought  with 
any  hope  of  success,  to  build  what  was  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  a  great  modern  city,  a 
city  of  half  a  million  inhabitants,  with  many 
miles  of  macadamized  thoroughfares,  with 
water  and  telephone  and  telegraph  systems, 
with  a  highly  efficient  sanitary  service,  with 
railways,  with  huge  warehouses  filled  with  food 
and  clothing,  with  more  hospitals  than  any  city 
ever  had  before,  with  butcher-shops  and  baker- 
ies and  machine-shops  and  tailors  and  boot- 
menders — in  fact,  with  everything  necessary  to 
meet  the  demands  of  500,000  men.  Yet  Mr. 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  119 

Bryan  and  his  fellow-members  of  the  Order  of 
the  Dove  and  Olive-Branch  would  have  us  be- 
lieve that  all  that  is  necessary  in  order  to  win 
a  modern  battle  is  to  take  the  trusty  target-rifle 
from  the  closet  under  the  stairs,  dump  a  box 
of  cartridges  into  our  pockets,  and  sally  forth, 
whereupon  the  enemy,  decimated  by  the  dead- 
liness  of  our  fire,  will  be  only  too  glad  to  sur- 
render. 

The  most  formidable  task  which  confronted 
the  Italians  was  that  of  constructing  the  vast 
system  of  trenches  through  which  the  troops 
could  be  moved  forward  in  comparative  safety 
to  the  positions  from  which  would  be  launched 
the  final  assault.  This  presented  no  excep- 
tional difficulties  in  the  rich  alluvial  soil  on  the 
Isonzo's  western  bank,  but  once  the  Italians 
had  crossed  the  river  they  found  themselves  on 
the  Carso,  through  whose  solid  rock  the 
trenches  could  be  driven  only  with  pneumatic 
drills  and  dynamite.  All  of  the  Italian  trenches 
that  I  saw  showed  a  very  high  skill  in  engi- 
neering. Instead  of  keeping  the  earthen  walls 


ITALY     AT    WAR 

from  crumbling  and  caving  by  the  use  of  the 
wicker-work  revetments  so  general  on  the 
Western  Front,  the  Italians  use'  a  sort  of  steel 
trellis  which  is  easily  put  in  place,  and  is  not 
readily  damaged  by  shell-fire.  Other  trenches 
which  I  saw  (though  not  on  the  Carso,  of 
course)  were  built  of  solid  concrete  with  steel 
shields  for  the  riflemen  cemented  into  the 
parapets. 

During  these  weeks  of  preparation  the  Ital- 
ian aviators,  observers,  and  spies  had  been  busy 
collecting  information  concerning  the  strength 
of  the  Gorizia  defenses  and  the  disposition  of 
the  Austrian  batteries  and  troops.  By  means 
of  thousands  of  photographs  taken  from  air- 
planes, enlarged,  and  then  pieced  together,  the 
Italians  had  as  accurate  and  detailed  a  map  of 
the  Austrian  lines  of  defense  as  was  possessed 
by  the  Austrian  General  Staff  itself.  Thanks 
to  the  data  thus  obtained,  the  Italian  gunners 
were  able  to  locate  their  targets  and  estimate 
their  ranges  with  absolute  precision.  They 
knew  which  building  in  Gorizia  was  the  head- 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  121 

quarters  of  the  Austrian  commander;  they  had 
discovered  where  his  telephone  and  telegraph 
stations  were  located ;  and  they  had  spotted  his 
observation  posts.  Indeed,  so  highly  developed 
was  the  Italian  intelligence  service  that  the 
Austrians  were  not  able  to  transfer  a  battalion 
or  change  the  position  of  a  battery  without  the 
knowledge  of  General  Cadorna. 

Now  the  Austrians,  like  the  newspaper  ex- 
perts, were  convinced  that  the  Italians  had 
their  hands  full  in  the  Trentino  without  court- 
ing trouble  on  the  Isonzo.  And  if  there  was 
to  be  an  attack  along  the  Isonzo  front — which 
they  doubted — they  believed  that  it  would  al- 
most certainly  develop  in  the  Monfalcone  sec- 
tor, next  the  sea.  And  of  this  belief  the  Italians 
took  care  not  to  disabuse  them.  Here  again 
was  exemplified  the  vital  necessity  of  having 
control  of  the  air.  If,  during  the  latter  half 
of  July,  the  Austrian  fliers  had  been  able  to 
get  over  the  Italian  lines,  they  could  not  have 
failed  to  observe  the  enormous  preparations 
which  were  in  progress,  and  when  the  Italians 


122  ITALY   AT    WAR 

advanced,  the  Austrians  would  have  been  ready 
for  them.  But  the  Italians  kept  control  of  the 
air  (during  my  entire  trip  on  the  Italian  front 
I  can  recall  having  seen  only  one  Austrian  air- 
plane) ,  the  Austrians  had  no  means  of  learning 
what  was  impending,  and  were,  therefore,  quite 
unprepared  for  the  attack  when  it  came — and 
Gorizia  fell. 

By  the  4th  of  August,  1916,  all  was  ready 
for  the  Big  Push.  On  the  morning  of  that  day 
brisk  fighting  began  on  the  Monf  alcone  sector. 
Convinced  that  this  was  the  danger-point,  the 
Austrian  commander  rushed  his  reserves  south- 
ward to  strengthen  his  threatened  line.  This 
was  precisely  what  the  Italians  wanted.  They 
had  succeeded  in  distracting  his  attention  from 
their  real  objective — Gorizia.  Now  the  battle 
of  Gorizia  was  really  not  fought  at  Gorizia  at 
all.  What  happened  was  the  brilliant  and 
bloody  storming  of  the  Austrian  positions  on 
Podgora  and  Monte  Sabotino,  a  simultaneous 
crossing  of  the  Isonzo  opposite  Gorizia  and  at 
Sagrado,  and  a  splendid  rush  up  to  and  across 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  123 

the  plateau  of  the  Carso  which  culminated  in 
the  taking  of  Monte  San  Michele.  Gorizia 
itself  was  not  organized  for  defense,  and  so 
astounded  was  its  garrison  at  the  capture  in 
rapid  succession  of  the  city's  defending  posi- 
tions, which  had  been  deemed  impregnable,  that 
no  serious  resistance  was  offered. 

On  the  morning  of  August  6  a  hurricane 
of  steel  suddenly  broke  upon  Gorizia.  But  the 
Italian  gunners  had  received  careful  instruc- 
tions, and  instead  of  blowing  the  city  off  the 
map,  as  they  could  easily  have  done,  they  con- 
fined their  efforts  to  the  destruction  of  the 
enemy's  headquarters,  observation  posts,  and 
telephone-stations,  thus  destroying  his  means 
of  communication  and  effectually  disrupting 
his  entire  organization.  Other  batteries  turned 
their  attention  to  the  railway-station,  the  rail- 
way-yards, and  the  roads,  dropping  such  a 
curtain  of  shell-fire  behind  the  town  that  the 
Austrians  were  unable  to  bring  up  reinforce- 
ments. Care  was  taken,  however,  to  do  as  little 


124  ITALY    AT    WAR 

damage  as  possible  to  the  city  itself,  as  the  Ital- 
ians wanted  it  for  themselves. 

The  most  difficult,  as  it  was  the  most  spectac- 
ular, phase  of  the  attack  was  the  storming  of 
the  Sabotino,  a  mountain  two  thousand  feet 
high,  which,  it  was  generally  believed,  could 
never  be  taken  with  the  bayonet.  The  Italians, 
realizing  that  no  troops  in  the  world  could  hope 
to  reach  the  summit  of  those  steep  slopes  in  the 
face  of  barbed  wire,  rifles,  and  machine-guns, 
had,  unknown  to  the  enemy,  driven  a  tunnel, 
a  mile  and  a  quarter  long,  into  the  very  heart 
of  this  position.  When  the  assault  was  ordered, 
therefore,  the  first  lines  of  Italian  infantry  sud- 
denly appeared  from  out  of  the  ground  within 
a  few  yards  of  the  Austrian  trenches.  Amid 
a  storm  of  vivas  the  gray  wave,  with  its  crest 
of  glistening  steel,  surged  up  the  few  remaining 
yards  of  glacis,  topped  the  parapet,  and  over- 
whelmed the  defenders.  Monte  Sabotino,  the 
key  to  the  bridge-head  and  the  city,  was  in  the 
hands  of  the  Italians.  But  the  Austrians  in- 
trenched on  Hill  240,  the  highest  summit  of  the 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  125 

Podgora  range,  still  held  out,  and  it  took  sev- 
eral hours  of  savage  fighting  to  dislodge  them. 
This  last  stronghold  taken,  the  gray-clad  in- 
fantry suddenly  debouched  from  the  sheltering 
ravines  and  went  swarming  down  to  the 
Isonzo.  Almost  simultaneously  another  divi- 
sion crossed  the  river  several  miles  below,  at 
Sagrado.  Into  the  stream  they  went,  their 
rifles  held  high  above  their  heads,  chanting  the 
splendid  hymn  of  Garibaldi.  The  Austrian 
shrapnel  churned  the  river  into  foam,  its  waters 
turned  from  blue  to  crimson,  but  the  insistent 
bugles  pealed  the  charge,  and  the  lines  of  gray 
swept  on.  Pausing  on  the  eastern  bank  only 
long  enough  to  re-form,  the  lines  again  rolled 
forward.  White  disks  carried  high  above  the 
heads  of  the  men  showed  the  Italian  gunners 
how  far  the  infantry  had  advanced  and  en- 
abled them  to  gauge  their  protecting  curtain 
of  fire.  Though  smothered  with  shells,  and 
swept  by  machine-guns,  nothing  could  stop 
them.  "Avanti  Savoia!"  they  roared.  "Viva  I 
Eviva  Italia!" 


126  ITALY    AT    WAR 

Meanwhile,  under  a  heavy  fire,  the  Italian 
engineers  were  repairing  the  iron  bridge  which 
carried  the  railway  from  Milan  and  Udine 
across  the  Isonzo  to  Gorizia  and  so  to  Trieste 
and  Vienna.  The  great  stone  bridge  over  the 
river  had  been  destroyed  the  day  before  be- 
yond the  possibility  of  immediate  repair.  In 
an  amazingly  short  time  the  work  was  done 
and  the  Italian  field-batteries  went  tearing 
over  the  bridge  at  a  gallop  to  unlimber  on  the 
opposite  bank  and  send  a  shower  of  shrapnel 
after  the  retreating  Austrians.  Close  behind 
the  guns  poured  Carabinieri,  Alpini,  Bersa- 
glieri,  infantry  of  the  line  and  squadron  after 
squadron  of  cavalry  riding  under  thickets  of 
lances.  A  strong  force  of  Carabinieri  were  the 
first  troops  to  enter  the  city,  and  not  until  they 
had  taken  complete  possession  and  had  as- 
sumed the  reins  of  the  local  government,  were 
the  line  troops  permitted  to  come  in. 

The  fighting  continued  for  three  days,  the 
Austrians,  though  discouraged  and  to  some 
^extent  demoralized,  making  a  brave  resistance. 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  127 

In  one  doUna  which  had  been  fortified,  an  offi- 
cer and  a  handful  of  men  fought  so  pluckily 
against  overwhelming  odds  that,  when  at 
length  the  survivors  came  out  and  surrendered, 
the  Italians  presented  arms  to  them  as  a  mark 
of  respect  and  admiration.  By  the  evening 
of  the  9th  of  August  the  attack,  "one  of  the 
most  important  and  violent  onslaughts  on 
fortified  positions  that  the  European  War  has 
yet  seen,"  had  been  completely  successful,  and 
the  city  of  Gorizia,  together  with  the  heights 
that  guarded  it,  including  the  northern  end  of 
the  Carso  plateau,  were  in  Italian  hands.  The 
cost  to  Italy  was  20,000  dead  men.  It  was  a 
high  price  but,  on  the  other  hand,  she  cap- 
tured 19,000  prisoners,  67  pieces  of  artillery, 
and  scores  of  trench  mortars  and  machine- 
guns.  The  moral  and  strategic  results  were 
of  incalculable  value.  The  first  line  of  the 
Austrian  defense,  deemed  one  of  the  strong- 
est on  any  front,  had  collapsed  beneath  the 
Italian  assaults ;  though  the  crest  of  the  Carso 
still  remained  in  Austrian  hands,  the  gateway 


128  ITALY    AT    WAR 

to  Trieste  had  been  opened;  and  most  im- 
portant of  all,  the  Italian  people  had  gained 
the  self-confidence  which  they  had  long  lacked 
and  which  comes  only  from  military  achieve- 
ment. 

In  order  to  reach  Gorizia  we  had  to  motor 
for  some  miles  along  a  road  exposed  to  enemy 
fire,  for  the  hills  dominating  the  city  to  the 
south  and  east  were  still  in  Austrian  hands. 
The  danger  was  minimized  as  much  as  pos- 
sible by  screening  the  roads  in  the  manner  I 
have  already  described,  so,  as  the  officer  who 
accompanied  me  took  pains  to  explain,  if  we 
happened  to  be  hit  by  a  shell,  it  would  be  one 
fired  at  random.  I  could  see  no  reason,  how- 
ever, why  a  random  shell  wouldn't  end  my 
career  just  as  effectually  as  a  shell  intended 
specially  for  me.  Although,  thanks  to  the 
tunnels  of  matting,  the  Austrians  cannot  see 
the  traffic  on  the  roads,  they  know  that  it 
must  cross  the  bridges,  so  on  them  they  keep 
up  a  continuous  rain  of  projectiles,  and  there 
you  have  to  take  your  chance.  The  Gorizia 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  129 

bridge-head  was  not  a  place  where  I  should 
have  cared  to  loiter. 

It  is  not  a  simple  matter  to  obtain  permis- 
sion to  visit  Gorizia  (it  is  much  easier  to  visit 
Verdun),  for  the  city  is  shelled  with  more  or 
less  regularity,  and  to  have  visitors  about 
under  such  conditions  is  a  nuisance.  Hence, 
one  cannot  get  into  Gorizia  unless  bearing  a 
special  pass  issued  by  the  Comando  Supremo. 
So  rigid  are  the  precautions  against  unauthor- 
ized visitors  that,  though  accompanied  by  two 
officers  of  the  Staff  and  travelling  in  a  staff- 
car,  we  were  halted  by  the  Carabinieri  and 
our  papers  examined  seven  times.  To  this 
famous  force  of  constabulary  has  been  given 
the  work  of  policing  the  occupied  regions,  and 
indeed,  the  entire  zone  of  the  armies.  With 
their  huge  cocked  hats,  which,  since  the  war 
began,  have  been  covered  with  gray  linen, 
their  rosy  faces,  so  pink-and-white  that  they 
look  as  though  they  had  been  rouged  and 
powdered,  and  their  little  upturned  waxed 
mustaches,  the  Carabinieri  always  remind  me 


130  ITALY    AT    WAR 

of  the  gendarmes  in  comic  operas.  But  the 
only  thing  comic  about  them  is  their  hats. 
They  are  the  sternest  and  most  uncompromis- 
ing guardians  of  the  law  that  I  know.  You 
can  expostulate  with  a  London  bobbie,  you 
can  argue  with  a  Paris  gendarme,  you  can  on 
occasion  reason  mildly  with  a  New  York 
policeman,  but  not  with  an  Italian  carbineer. 
To  give  them  back  talk  is  to  invite  immediate 
and  serious  trouble.  They  are  supreme  in  the 
war  zone,  for  they  take  orders  from  no  one 
save  their  own  officers  and  have  the  authority 
to  turn  back  or  arrest  any  one,  no  matter  what 
his  rank.  Our  chauffeur,  who,  being  attached 
to  the  Comando  Supremo,  had  become  so  ac- 
customed to  driving  generals  and  cabinet  min- 
isters that  he  blagued  the  military  sentries, 
and  quite  openly  sneered  at  the  orders  of  the 
Udine  police,  would  jam  on  his  brakes  so  sud- 
denly that  we  would  almost  go  through  the 
wind-shield  if  a  carbineer  held  up  his  hand. 
Gorizia  is,  or  was  before  the  war,  a  place  of 
some  40,000  inhabitants.  It  has  broad  streets, 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  131 

lined  by  fine  white  buildings  and  lovely  gar- 
dens, and  outside  the  town  are  excellent  me- 
dicinal baths.  It  will,  I  think,  prove  a  very 
popular  summer  resort  with  the  Italians. 
Though  for  many  months  prior  to  its  capture 
it  was  within  range  of  the  Italian  guns,  which 
could  have  blown  it  to  smithereens,  they  re- 
frained from  doing  so  because  it  was  desired^ 
if  possible,  to  take  the  place  intact.  That,, 
indeed,  has  been  the  Italian  policy  throughout 
the  war:  to  do  as  little  unnecessary  damage 
as  possible.  Now  the  Austrians,  who  look 
down  on  their  lost  city  from  the  heights  to 
the  eastward,  refrain  from  destroying  it,  as 
they  easily  could  do,  because  they  cling  to  the 
hope  that  they  may  get  it  back  again.  So, 
though  the  bridge-heads  are  shelled  constantly, 
and  though  considerable  damage  has  been  in- 
flicted on  the  suburbs,  no  serious  harm  has 
been  done  to  the  city  itself.  By  this  I  do  not 
mean  to  imply  that  the  Austrians  never  shell 
it,  for  they  do,  but  only  in  a  desultory,  half- 
hearted fashion.  During  the  day  that  I  spent 


132  ITALY    AT    WAR 

in  Gorizia  the  deserted  streets  echoed  about 
every  five  minutes  to  the  screech-bang  of  an 
Austrian  arrive  or  the  bang-screech  of  an  Ital- 
ian depart. 

Finding  that  the  big  Hotel  du  Pare,  which 
is  the  city's  leading  hostelry,  was  closed,  we 
lunched  at  the  more  modest  Hotel  de  la  Poste. 
Our  luncheon  was  served  us  in  the  kitchen,  as, 
shortly  before  our  arrival,  the  dining-room  had 
been  wrecked  by  an  Austrian  shell.  Though 
this  had  naturally  somewhat  upset  things,  we 
had  a  really  excellent  meal :  minestrone,  which, 
so  far  as  I  could  discover,  is  the  only  variety 
of  soup  known  to  the  Italians,  mutton,  vege- 
tables, a  pudding,  fruit,  the  best  coffee  I  have 
had  in  Europe  since  the  war  began,  and  a 
bottle  of  fine  old  Austrian  wine,  which,  like 
the  German  vintages,  is  no  longer  procurable 
in  the  restaurants  of  civilized  Europe.  While 
we  ate,  there  was  a  brisk  exchange  of  compli- 
ments between  the  Italian  and  Austrian  bat- 
teries in  progress  above  the  roofs  of  the  town. 
The  table  at  which  we  sat  was  pushed  close 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  133 

up  against  one  of  the  thick  masonry  columns 
which  supported  the  kitchen  ceiling.  It  prob- 
ably would  not  have  been  much  of  a  protection 
had  a  shell  chanced  to  drop  in  on  us,  but  it  was 
wonderfully  comforting. 

I  was  accompanied  on  my  visit  to  Gorizia 
by  Signer  Ugo  Ojetti,  the  noted  Florentine 
connoisseur  who  has  been  charged  with  the 
preservation  of  all  the  historical  monuments 
and  works  of  art  in  the  war  zone.  About  this 
charming  and  cultured  genlteman  I  was  told 
a  characteristic  story.  In  the  outskirts  of 
Gorizia  stands  the  chateau  of  an  Austrian 
nobleman  who  was  the  possessor  of  a  famous 
collection  of  paintings.  Now  it  is  Signor 
Ojetti's  business  to  save  from  injury  or  de- 
struction all  works  of  art  which  are  worth  sav- 
ing, and,  after  ticketing  and  cataloguing  them, 
to  ship  them  to  a  place  of  safety  to  be  kept 
until  the  war  is  over,  when  they  will  be  re- 
stored to  their  respective  owners.  Though  the 
chateau  in  question  was  within  the  Italian 
lines,  the  windows  of  the  ballroom,  in  which 


134  ITALY    AT    WAR 

hung  the  best  of  the  pictures,  were  within  easy 
range  of  the  Austrian  snipers,  who,  whenever 
they  saw  any  one  moving  about  inside,  would 
promptly  open  a  brisk  rifle  fire.  Scarcely  had 
Ojetti  and  his  assistant  set  foot  within  the 
room  when  ping  came  an  Austrian  bullet 
through  the  window,  shattering  the  crystal 
chandelier  over  their  heads.  Then  was  pre- 
sented the  extraordinary  spectacle  of  the  great- 
est art  critic  in  Italy  crawling  on  hands  and 
knees  over  a  ballroom  floor,  taking  care  to 
keep  as  close  to  that  floor  as  possible,  and 
pausing  now  and  then  to  make  a  careful  scru- 
tiny of  the  canvases  that  hung  on  the  walls 
above  him.  "That's  probably  an  Allori,"  he 
would  call  to  his  assistant.  "Remember  to 
take  that  down  after  it  gets  dark.  The  one 
next  to  it  is  good  too — looks  like  a  B  or  done, 
though  I  can't  be  certain  in  this  light.  But 
don't  bother  about  that  picture  over  the  fire- 
place— it's  only  a  copy  and  not  worth  saving. 
Let  the  Austrians  have  it  if  they  want  it." 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  135 

And  they  told  me  that  through  it  all  he  never 
once  lost  his  dignity  or  his  monocle. 

Another  interesting  figure  who  joined  our 
little  party  in  Gorizia  was  a  monk  who  had 
served  as  a  regimental  chaplain  since  the  be- 
ginning of  the  war.  He  was  a  broad-shoul- 
dered, brown-bearded  fellow  and,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  scarlet  cross  on  the  breast  of  his 
uniform,  I  should  have  taken  him  for  a  fine 
type  of  the  Italian  fighting  man.  I  rather 
suspect,  though,  that  when  the  bugles  pealed 
the  signal  for  the  attack,  he  quite  forgot  that 
the  wearers  of  the  Red  Cross  are  supposed 
to  be  non-combatants.  During  the  Austrian 
offensive  in  the  Trentino,  an  Italian  army 
chaplain  was  awarded  the  gold  medal  for 
valor,  the  highest  military  decoration,  because 
he  rallied  the  men  of  his  regiment  after  all  the 
officers  had  fallen  and  led  them  in  the  storm- 
ing of  an  Austrian  position  held  by  a  greatly 
superior  force.  Another  chaplain  who  had 
likewise  assumed  command  of  officerless  troops 
was  awarded  the  silver  medal  for  yalor.  As 


136  ITALY    AT   WAR 

the  duties  of  the  army  chaplains  are  supposed 
to  be  confined  to  giving  the  men  spiritual  ad- 
vice, the  doubt  arose  as  to  whether  they  were 
justified  in  actually  fighting,  thus  risking  the 
loss  of  their  character  as  non-combatants.  This 
puzzling  question  was,  therefore,  submitted  to 
the  Pope,  who  decided  that  chaplains  assum- 
ing command  of  troops  who  had  lost  their  offi- 
cers in  battle  were  merely  discharging  their 
duty,  as  they  encouraged  the  men  to  resist  in 
self-defense.  In  addition  to  the  regimental 
chaplains  there  are,  so  I  was  told,  thousands 
of  priests  and  monks  serving  in  the  ranks  of 
the  Italian  armies.  Whether,  after  leading 
the  exciting  and  adventurous  life  of  a  soldier, 
these  men  will  be  content  to  resume  the  sandals 
and  the  woollen  robe,  and  to  go  back  to  the 
sheltered  and  monotonous  existence  of  the 
monastic  orders,  I  very  strongly  doubt.  In 
any  event,  their  sympathies  will  have  been 
deepened  and  their  outlook  on  life  immensely 
broadened. 

It  rained  in  torrents  during  my  stay  in 


THE    ROAD    TO    TRIESTE  137 

Gorizia,  but,  as  we  recrossed  the  Isonzo  onto 
the  Friulian  plain,  the  sinking  sun  burst 
through  a  rift  in  the  leaden  clouds  and  turned 
into  a  huge  block  of  rosy  coral  the  red  rampart 
of  the  Carso.  Beyond  that  wall,  scarce  a 
dozen  miles  as  the  airplane  flies,  but  many 
times  that  distance  as  the  big  gun  travels,  lies 
Trieste.  It  will  be  a  long  road,  a  hard  road, 
a  bloody  road  which  the  Italians  must  follow 
to  attain  their  City  of  Desire,  and  before  that 
journey  is  ended  the  red  rocks  of  the  Carso 
will  be  redder  still.  But  they  will  finish  the 
journey,  I  think.  For  these  iron-hard,  brown- 
faced  men,  remember,  are  the  stuff  from  which 
was  made  those  ever-victorious  legions  that 
built  the  Roman  Empire — and  it  is  the  dream 
of  founding  another  Empire  which  is  beckon- 
ing them  on. 


WITH   THE   RUSSIANS   IN   CHAMPAGNE 

\\  7  HEN  the  French  have  been  pestered 
for  permission  to  visit  the  front  by 
some  foreigner — usually  an  American — until 
their  patience  has  been  exhausted,  or  when 
there  comes  to  Paris  a  visitor  to  whom,  for  one 
reason  or  another,  they  wish  to  show  atten- 
tion, they  send  him  to  Rheims.  Artists,  archi- 
tects, ex-ambassadors,  ex-congressmen,  lady 
journalists,  manufacturers  in  quest  of  war 
orders,  bankers  engaged  in  floating  loans,  mil- 
lionaires who  have  given  or  are  likely  to  give 
money  to  war-charities,  editors  of  obscure 
newspapers  and  monthly  magazines,  are 
packed  off  weekly,  in  personally  conducted 
parties  of  a  dozen  or  more,  on  a  day's  excur- 
sion to  the  City  of  the  Desecrated  Cathedral. 
They  grow  properly  indignant  over  the  cathe- 
dral's shattered  beauties,  they  visit  the  famous 

138 


THE    RUSSIANS    IN    CHAMPAGNE     139 

wine-cellars,  they  hear  the  occasional  crack  of 
a  rifle  or  the  crash  of  a  field-gun,*  and,  upon 
their  return,  they  write  articles  for  the  maga- 
zines, and  give  lectures,  and  to  their  friends 
at  home  send  long  letters — usually  copied  in 
the  local  papers — describing  their  experiences 
"on  the  firing-line."  "Visiting  the  front"  has, 
indeed,  become  as  popular  a  pastime  among 
Americans  in  Paris  as  was  racing  at  Long- 
champs  and  Auteuil  before  the  war.  Hence, 
no  place  in  the  entire  theatre  of  war  has  had 
so  much  advertising  as  Rheims.  No  sector  of 
the  front  has  been  visited  by  so  many  civilians. 
That  is  why  I  am  not  going  to  say  anything 
about  Rheims — at  least  about  its  cathedral. 
For  there  is  nothing  left  to  say. 

Five  minutes  of  brisk  walking  from  the 
cathedral  brings  one  to  the  entrance  of  the 
famous  wine-cellars  of  Pommery  et  Cie,  the 
property  of  the  ancient  family  of  de  Polignac. 

*  Since  this  was  written  the  Germans  have  bombarded  Rheims 
so  heavily,  with  the  evident  intention  of  completing  its  destruc- 
tion, that  the  French  military  authorities  have  ordered  the  evacu- 
ation of  the  civil  population. 


140  ITALY    AT    WAR 

The  space  in  this  underground  city  is  about 
equally  divided  between  champagne  and  civil- 
ians, for  several  hundred  of  the  townspeople, 
who  sought  refuge  here  in  the  opening  weeks 
of  the  war,  still  make  these  gloomy  passages 
their  home.  As  the  caves  have  a  mean  tem- 
perature of  fifty  degrees  Fahrenheit  they  are 
comfortable  enough,  and,  as  they  are  fifty  feet 
below  the  surface  of  the  earth,  they  are  safe. 
So  there  the  more  timid  citizens  live,  rent-free, 
and  will  continue,  to  live,  no  doubt,  until  the 
end  of  the  war.  In  normal  times,  there  are 
shipped  from  these  cellars  each  day  thirty 
thousand  bottles  of  champagne,  and  even  now, 
despite  the  proximity  of  the  Germans — their 
trenches  are  only  a  few  hundred  yards  away 
— the  work  of  packing  and  shipping  goes  on 
much  as  usual,  though,  of  course,  on  a  greatly 
reduced  scale,  averaging,  so  I  was  told,  eight 
thousand  bottles  daily.  By  far  the  greater 
part  of  this  goes  to  America,  for  nowadays 
Europeans  do  not  buy  champagne. 

To  the  red-faced,  white-waistcoated,  pros- 


THE    RUSSIANS    IN    CHAMPAGNE     141 

perous-Iooking  gentlemen  who  scan  so  care- 
fully the  hotel  wine-lists,  I  feel  sure  that  it 
will  come  as  a  relief  to  learn  that,  though  there 
was  no  1916  crop  of  champagne,  the  vintages 
of  1914  and  1915  were  exceptionally  fine — 
grands  vins  they  will  probably  be  labelled. 
(And  they  ought  to  be,  for  the  vines  were 
watered  with  the  bravest  blood  of  France.)  I 
don't  suppose  it  would  particularly  interest 
those  same  complacent  gentlemen,  though, 
were  I  to  add  that  the  price  of  one  of  those 
gilt-topped  bottles  would  keep  a  French  child 
from  cold  and  hunger  for  a  month. 

A  few  hours  before  I  visited  the  cellars,  a 
workman,  loading  cases  of  champagne  in  front 
of  the  company's  offices  for  export  to  the 
United  States,  was  blown  to  pieces  by  a  Ger- 
man shell.  They  showed  me  the  shattered 
columns  of  the  office-building,  and  on  the 
cobbles  of  the  little  square  pointed  out  an  ugly 
stain.  So,  when  I  returned  to  America,  and 
in  a  famous  restaurant,  where  I  was  dining, 
saw  white-shirted  men  and  white-shouldered 


142  ITALY    AT    WAR 

women  sipping  glasses  abrim  with  the  spark- 
ling wine  of  Rheims,  the  picture  of  those  blood- 
stained cobbles  in  that  French  city  flashed  be- 
fore me,  and  I  experienced  a  momentary  sen- 
sation of  disgust,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  in 
the  amber  depths  I  caught  a  stain  of  crimson. 
But  of  course  it  was  only  my  imagination. 
Still,  I  was  glad  when  it  came  time  to  leave, 
for  the  scene  was  too  suggestive  in  its  con- 
trast to  be  pleasant:  we,  in  America,  eating 
and  drinking  and  laughing;  they,  over  there 
in  Europe,  fighting  and  suffering  and  hunger- 
ing. 

Leaving  Rheims,  we  took  a  great  gray  car 
and  drove  south,  ever  south,  until,  as  darkness 
was  falling,  we  reached  the  headquarters  of 
General  Jilinsky,  commanding  the  Russian 
forces  fighting  in  Champagne.  Here  the  Rus- 
sians have  two  infantry  brigades,  with  a  total 
of  16,000  men;  there  is  a  third  brigade  at 
Salonika.  The  last  time  the  Russians  were  in 
France  was  in  1814,  and  then  they  were  there 


THE    RUSSIANS    IN    CHAMPAGNE     143 

for  a  different  purpose.  Little  could  Napoleon 
have  dreamed  that  they,  who  helped  to  de- 
throne him,  would  come  back,  a  century  later, 
as  France's  allies.  Yet  this  war  has  produced 
stranger  coincidences  than  that.  The  British 
armies,  disembarking  at  Rouen,  tramp  through 
that  very  square  where  their  ancestors  burned 
the  Maid  of  Orleans.  And  at  Pont  des 
Briques,  outside  Boulogne,  where  Napoleon 
waited  impatiently  for  weeks  in  the  hope  of 
being  able  to  invade  England,  is  now  situated 
the  greatest  of  the  British  base  camps. 

General  Jilinsky  reminded  me  of  a  fighting- 
cock.  He  is  a  little  man,  much  the  height  and 
build  of  the  late  General  Funston,  with  hair 
cropped  close  to  the  skull,  after  the  Russian 
fashion;  through  a  buttonhole  of  his  green 
service  tunic  was  drawn  the  orange-and-black 
ribbon  of  the  Order  of  St.  George.  He  can 
best  be  described  as  "a  live  wire."  His  staff- 
ofiicers  impressed  me  as  being  as  efficient  and 
razor-keen  as  their  chief.  The  general  asked 
me  if  I  would  like  to  visit  his  trenches,  and  I 


144  ITALY    AT    WAR 

assured  him  that  it  was  the  hope  of  being  per- 
mitted to  do  so  which  had  brought  me  there. 
Whereupon  a  staff-officer  disappeared  into  the 
hall  to  return  a  moment  later  with  a  gas-mask 
in  a  tin  case  and  a  steel  helmet  covered  with 
tan  linen. 

"You  had  better  take  these  with  you,"  he 
said.  "There  is  nearly  always  something  hap- 
pening on  our  front,  and  there  is  no  sense  in 
taking  unnecessary  risks." 

I  soon  found  that  the  precaution  was  not  an 
idle  one,  for,  as  our  car  drew  up  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  boyau  which  led  by  devious  wind- 
ings into  the  first-line  trenches,  the  group  of 
officers  and  men  assembled  in  front  of  bri- 
gade headquarters  were  hastily  donning  their 
masks:  grotesque-looking  contrivances  of 
metal,  cloth,  and  rubber,  which  in  shape  re- 
sembled a  pig's  snout. 

"Gas,"  said  my  Russian  companion  briefly. 
"We  will  stay  here  until  it  is  over." 

Though  we  must  have  been  nearly  a  mile 
behind  the  firing-line,  the  air  was  filled  with  a 


"Gas!" 

The  soldiers  holding  a  trench  on  the  Carso  don  their  masks  when  the  Austrian 
batteries  bombard  them  with  gas-shells. 


THE    RUSSIANS    IN    CHAMPAGNE 

sweetish,  sickish  smell  which  suggested  both 
the  operating-room  and  the  laboratory.  So 
faint  and  elusive  was  the  odor  that  I  hesitated 
to  follow  the  example  of  the  others  and  don 
my  mask,  until  I  remembered  having  been  told 
at  Souchez,  on  the  British  front,  that  a  horse 
had  been  killed  by  gas  when  seven  miles  be- 
hind the  lines. 

It  is  a  logical  development  of  this  use  of 
chemicals  as  weapons  that  the  horses  in  use 
on  the  French  front  are  now  provided  with 
gas-masks  in  precisely  the  same  manner  as  the 
soldiers.  These  masks,  which  are  kept  at- 
tached to  the  harness,  ready  for  instant  use> 
do  not  cover  the.  entire  face,  as  do  those  worn 
by  the  men,  but  only  the  mouth  and  nostrils. 
In  fact  they  resemble  the  feeding-bags  which 
cartmen  and  cab-drivers  put  on  their  horses 
for  the  midday  meal.  Generally  speaking,  the 
masks  are  provided  only  for  artillery  horses 
and  those  employed  in  hauling  ammunition, 
though  it  now  seems  likely  that  if  the  cavalry 
gets  a  chance  to  go  into  action,  masks  will  be 


146  ITALY   AT   WAR 

worn  by  the  troopers  and  their  horses  alike. 
After  a  large  gas  attack  the  fumes  sometimes 
settle  down  in  the  valleys  far  behind  the  lines, 
and  hours  may  elapse  before  they  are  dissi- 
pated by  the  wind.  As  it  not  infrequently 
happens  that  one  of  these  gas  banks  settles 
over  a  road  on  which  it  is  imperative  that  the 
traffic  be.  not  interrupted,  large  signs  are 
posted  notifying  all  drivers  to  put  the  masks 
on  their  horses  before  entering  the  danger 
zone. 

There  are  now  three  different  kinds  of  gases 
in  general  use  on  the  Western  Front.  The 
best  known  of  these  is  a  form  of  chlorine  gas, 
which  is  liberated  from  cylinders  or  flasks,  to 
be  carried  by  the  wind  over  the  enemy's  lines. 
.Contrary  to  the  popular  impression,  its  use  is 
not  as  general  as  the  newspaper  accounts  have 
led  the  public  to  believe,  for  it  requires  elab- 
orate preparation,  can  only  be  employed  over 
comparatively  flat  ground,  and  then  only  when 
the  wind  is  of  exactly  the  right  velocity, 
neither  too  light  nor  too  strong.  Another 


THE    RUSSIANS    IN    CHAMPAGNE     147 

form  of  asphyxiating  gas  is  held  in  shells  in 
liquid  form,  usually  in  lead  containers.  Upon 
the  bursting  of  the  shell,  which  is  fired  from 
an  ordinary  field-gun,  the  liquid  rapidly  evap- 
orates and  liberates  the  gas,  a  few  inhalations 
of  which  are  sufficient  to  cause  death.  The 
third  type  consists  of  lachrymal,  or  tear-pro- 
ducing, gas,  which  is  used  in  the  same  way  as 
the  asphyxiating,  but  its  effects  are  not  fatal, 
merely  putting  a  man  out  of  action  for  a  few 
hours.  It  is  really,  however,  the  most  effica- 
cious of  the  three  types,  as  it  does  not  evap- 
orate as  readily  as  the  asphyxiating  gas.  As 
a  wefl  distributed  fire  of  lachrymal  shells  will 
form  a  screen  of  gas  which  will  last  for  several 
hours,  they  are  often  used  during  an  attack 
to  prevent  the  enemy  from  bringing  up  rein- 
forcements. Another  use  is  against  artillery 
positions,  the  clouds  of  gas  from  the  lachrymal 
shells  making  it  almost  impossible  for  the  men 
to  serve  the  guns.  I  was  also  told  of  these 
shells  having  been  used  with  great  success  to 
surround  the  headquarters  of  a  divisional  com- 


148  ITALY    AT    WAR 

mander,  disabling  him  and  his  entire  staff  dur- 
ing an  attack. 

Before  a  change  in  the  wind  dissipated  the 
last  odors  of  gas,  darkness  had  fallen.  "Now," 
said  my  cicerone,  "we  will  resume  our  trip  to 
the  trenches."  The  last  time  that  I  had  seen 
these  trenches,  which  the  Russians  are  now 
holding,  was  in  October,  1915,  during  the 
great  French  offensive  in  Champagne,  when 
I  had  visited  them  within  a  few  hours  after 
their  capture  by  the  French.  On  that  occa- 
sion they  had  been  so  pounded  by  the  French 
artillery  that  they  were  little  more  than  giant 
furrows  in  the  chalky  soil,  and  thickly  strewn 
along  those  furrows  was  all  the  horrid  garbage 
of  a  battlefield:  twisted  and  tangled  barbed 
wire,  splintered  planks,  shattered  rifles,  broken 
machine  -  guns,  unexploded  hand  -  grenades, 
knapsacks,  water-bottles,  pieces  of  uniforms, 
bits  of  leather,  and,  most  horrible  of  all,  the 
remains  of  what  had  once  been  human  beings. 
But  all  this  debris  had  long  since  been  cleared 
away.  Under  the  skilful  hands  of  the  Rus- 


THE    RUSSIANS    IN    CHAMPAGNE     149 

sians  the  rebuilt  trenches  had  taken  on  a  neat 
and  orderly  appearance.  The  earthen  walls 
had  been  revetted  with  wire  chicken-netting, 
and  instead  of  tramping  through  ankle-deep 
mud,  we  had  beneath  our  feet  neat  walks  of 
corduroy.  We  tramped  for  what  seemed  in- 
terminable miles  in  the  darkness,  always  zig- 
zagging. Now  and  then  we  would  come  upon 
little  fires,  discreetly  screened,  built  at  the  en- 
trances to  dugouts  burrowed  from  the  trench- 
walls.  Over  these  fires  soldiers  in  flat  caps 
and  belted  greatcoats  were  cooking  their  even- 
ing meal.  I  had  expected  to  see  unkempt  men 
wearing  sheepskin  caps,  men  with  flat  noses 
and  matted  beards,  but  instead  I  found  clean- 
shaven, splendidly  set-up  giants,  with  the  pink 
skins  that  come  from  perfect  cleanliness  and 
perfect  health.  Following  the  direction  of  the 
arrows  on  signs  printed  in  both  French  and 
Russian,  we  at  last  reached  the  fire-trench, 
where  dim  figures  looking  strangely  mediaeval 
in  their  steel  helmets,  crouched  motionless, 
peering  out  along  their  rifle-barrels  into  the 


150  ITALY   AT   WAR 

eerie  darkness  of  No  Man's  Land.  Here 
there  was  a  sporadic  illumination,  for  from  the 
German  trenches  in  front  of  us  lights  were 
rising  and  falling.  They  were  very  beautiful : 
slender  stems  of  fire  arching  skyward  to  burst 
into  blossoms  of  brilliant  sparks,  which  illumi- 
nated the  band  of .  shell-pocked  soil  between 
the  trenches  as  though  it  were  day.  Occasion- 
ally there  would  be  a  dozen  of  these  star-shells 
in  the  air  at  the  same  time :  they  reminded  me 
of  the  Fourth  of  July  fireworks  at  Manhattan 
Beach.  In  the  fire-trenches  there  is  no  talking 
save  in  whispers,  but  every  now  and  then  the 
almost  uncanny  silence  would  be  punctuated 
by  the  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle,  the  tut-tut-tut  of 
a  mitrailleuse,  or,  from  somewhere  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  angry  bark  of  a  field-gun. 

There  was  a  whispered  conversation  be- 
tween the  officer  in  command  of  the  trench 
and  my  guide.  The  latter  turned  to  me. 

"We  have  driven  a  sap  to  within  thirty 
metres  of  the  enemy,"  he  said,  "and  hare  es- 


THE    RUSSIANS    IN    CHAMPAGNE     151 

tablished  a  listening-post  out  there.  Would 
you  care  to  go  out  to  it?" 

I  would,  and  said  so. 

"No  talking,  then,  if  you  please,"  he  warned 
me,  "and  as  little  noise  as  possible." 

This  time  the  boyau  was  very  narrow,  and 
writhed  between  its  earthen  walls  like  a  dying 
snake.  We  advanced  on  tiptoe,  as  cautiously 
as  though  stalking  big  game — as,  indeed,  we 
were.  Ten  minutes  of  this  slow  and  tortuous 
progress  brought  us  to  the  poste  d'ecoute.  In 
a  space  the  size  of  a  hall  bedroom  half  a  score 
of  men  stood  in  attitudes  of  strained  expec- 
tancy, staring  into  the  blackness  through  the 
loopholes  in  their  steel  shields.  There  being 
no  loophole  vacant,  I  took  a  chance  and, 
standing  on  the  firing  step,  raised  my  head 
above  the  level  of  the  parapet  and  made  a 
hurried  survey  of  the  few  yards  of  No  Man's 
Land  which  separated  us  from  the  enemy — a 
space  so  narrow  that  I  could  have  thrown  a 
stone  across,  yet  more  impassable  than  the 
deepest  chasm.  I  was  rewarded  for  the  risk 


152  ITALY    AT    WAR 

by  getting  a  glimpse  of  a  dim  maze  of  wire 
entanglements,  and,  just  beyond,  a  darker 
bulk  which  I  knew  for  the  German  trench. 
And  I  knew  that  from  that  trench  sharp  eyes 
were  peering  out  into  the  darkness  toward  us 
just  as  we  were  trying  to  discern  them.  As  I 
stepped  down  from  my  somewhat  exposed 
position  a  soldier  standing  a  few  feet  farther 
along  the  line  raised  his  head  above  the  para- 
pet, as  though  to  relieve  his  cramped  muscles. 
Just  then  a  star-shell  burst  above  us,  turning 
the  trench  into  day.  Ping!!!  There  was  a 
ringing  metallic  sound,  as  when  a  22-caliber 
bullet  strikes  the  target  in  a  shooting-gallery, 
and  the  big  soldier  who  had  incautiously  ex- 
posed himself  crumpled  up  in  the  bottom  of 
the  trench  with  a  bullet  through  his  helmet 
and  through  his  brain.  The  young  officer  in 
command  of  the  listening-post  cursed  softly. 
"I'm  forever  warning  the  men  not  to  expose 
themselves,"  he  said  irritatedly,  "but  they 
forget  it  the  next  minute.  They're  nothing 
but  stupid  children."  He  spoke  in  much  the 


THE    RUSSIANS    IN    CHAMPAGNE     153 

same  tone  of  annoyance  he  might  have  used 
if  the  man  had  been  a  clumsy  servant  who 
had  broken  a  valuable  dish.  Then  he  went 
into  the  tiny  dugout  where  the  telephone  was, 
and  rang  up  the  trench  commander,  and  asked 
him  to  send  out  a  bearer,  for  the  boyau  com- 
municating with  the  listening-post  was  too 
narrow  to  admit  the  passage  of  a  stretcher. 
The  bearer  arrived  just  as  we  started  to  re- 
turn. He  was  a  regular  dray-horse  of  a  man, 
with  shoulders  as  massive  and  competent  as 
those  of  a  Constantinople  hamel.  Strapped  to 
his  back  by  a  sort  of  harness  was  a  contrivance 
which  looked  like  a  rude  armchair  with  the  legs 
cut  off.  His  comrades  hoisted  the  dead  man 
onto  the  back  of  the  live  man,  and  with  a  rope 
took  a  few  turns  about  the  bodies  of  both.  As 
we  made  our  slow  way  back  to  the  fire-trench, 
and  so  to  the  rear,  there  stumbled  at  our  heels 
the  grunting  porter  with  his  ghastly  burden. 
Now  and  then  I  would  glance  over  my  shoulder 
and,  in  the  fleeting  glare  of  the  star-shells, 
would  glimpse,  above  the  porter's  straining 


154  ITALY    AT    WAR 

shoulders,  the  head  of  the  dead  soldier  lolling 
inertly  from  side  to  side,  as  though  very,  very 
tired.  .  .  .  And  I  wondered  if  in  some  lonely 
cabin  by  the  Volga  a  woman  was  praying  for 
her  boy. 


VI 

"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!" 

GENERAL  Gouraud,  the  one-armed  hero 
of  Gallipoli,  who  commands  the  forces 
in  Champagne,  is  the  most  picturesque  and 
gallant  figure  in  all  the  armies  of  France.  On 
my  way  south  I  stopped  for  a  night  in  Chalons- 
sur-Marne  to  dine  with  him.  He  was  living 
in  a  comfortable  but  modest  house,  evidently 
the  residence  of  a  prosperous  tradesman. 

• 

When  I  arrived  I  found  the  small  and  rather 
barely  furnished  salon  filled  with  officers  of 
the  staff,  in  uniforms  of  the  beautiful  horizon 
blue  which  is  the  universal  dress  of  the  French 
army.  They  were  clustered  about  the  marble- 
topped  centre-table,  on  which,  I  imagine,  the 
family  Bible  used  to  rest,  but  which  now  held 
the  steel  base  of  a  380-centimetre  shell,  which 
had  fallen  in  a  near-by  village  that  afternoon. 

This  monster  projectile,  as  large  as  the  largest 

155 


156  ITALY   AT   WAR 

of  those  fired  by  our  coast-defense  guns,  must 
have  weighed  considerably  more  than  a  thou- 
sand pounds  and  doubtless  cost  the  Germans 
at  least  a  thousand  dollars,  yet  all  the  damage 
it  had  done  was  to  destroy  a  tumble-down  and 
uninhabited  cottage,  which  proves  that,  save 
against  permanent  fortifications,  there  is  a 
point  where  the  usefulness  of  these  abnormally 
large  guns  ceases.  While  we  were  discussing 
this  specimen  of  Bertha  Krupp's  handicraft, 
the  door  opened  and  General  Gouraud  entered 
the  room.  Seldom  have  I  seen  a  more  striking 
figure:  a  tall,  slender,  graceful  man,  with  a 
long,  brown,  spade-shaped  beard  which  did 
not  entirely  conceal  a  mouth  both  sensitive 
and  firm.  But  it  was  the  eyes  which  attracted 
and  held  one's  attention:  great,  lustrous  eyes, 
as  large  and  tender  as  a  woman's,  but  which 
could  on  occasion,  I  fancy,  become  cold  as 
steel,  or  angry  as  lightning.  One  sleeve  of 
his  tunic  hung  empty,  and  he  leaned  heavily 
on  a  cane,  for  during  the  landing  at  Gallipoli 
he  was  terribly  wounded  by  a  Turkish  shell. 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         157 

Covering  his  breast  were  glittering  stars  and 
crosses,  which  showed  how  brilliant  had  been 
his  services  in  this  and  other  wars.  He  is  a 
remarkable  man,  this  soldier  with  the  beard  of 
a  poilu  and  the  eyes  of  a  poet,  and,  unless  I 
am  greatly  mistaken,  he  is  destined  to  go  a 
long,  long  way. 

It  was  the  sort  of  dinner  that  one  marks 
with  a  white  milestone  on  the  road  of  memory. 
The  soldier-servants  wore  white-cotton  gloves 
and  there  were  flowers  on  the  table  and  menus 
with  quaint  little  military  sketches  in  the  cor- 
ners. General  Gouraud  talked  in  his  deep, 
melodious  voice  of  other  wars  in  which  he  had 
fought,  in  Annam  and  Morocco  and  Madagas- 
car, and  the  white-mustached  old  general  of 
artillery  at  my  left  illustrated,  with  the  aid  of 
the  knives  and  forks,  a  new  system  of  artillery 
fire,  which,  he  assured  me  very  earnestly,  would 
make  pudding  of  the  German  trenches.  While 
the  salad  was  being  served  one  of  the  staff- 
officers  was  called  to  the  telephone.  When  he 
returned  the  general  raised  inquiring  eye- 


158  ITALY    AT    WAR 

brows.  "N'importe,  mon  general"  he  an- 
swered. "Colonel telephoned  that  the 

Boches  attacked  in  force  south  of "  and 

he  named  a  certain  sector,  "but  that  we  have 
driven  them  back  with  heavy  losses.'*  Then 
he  resumed  his  interrupted  dinner  as  uncon- 
cernedly as  though  he  had  been  called  to  the 
telephone  to  be  told  that  the  Braves  had  de- 
feated the  Pirates  in  the  ninth  inning. 

While  we  were  at  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing the  windows  of  the  hotel  dining-room  sud- 
denly began  to  reverberate  to  the  bang-bang- 
bang  of  guns.  Going  to  the  door,  we  saw,  high 
overhead,  a  great  white  bird,  which  turned  to 
silver  when  touched  by  the  rays  of  the  morn- 
ing sun.  Though  shrapnel  bursts  were  all 
about  it — I  counted  thirty  of  the  fleecy  puffs  at 
one  time — it  sailed  serenely  on,  a  thing  of  deli- 
cate beauty  against  the  cloudless  blue.  Though 
few  airplanes  are  brought  down  by  artillery 
fire,  the  improvement  in  anti-aircraft  guns  has 
forced  the  aviators  to  keep  at  a  height  of  from 
12,000  to  17,000  feet,  instead  of  2,000,  as  they 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         159 

did  at  the  beginning  of  the  war.  The  French 
gunners  have  now  devised  a  system  which, 
when  it  is  successfully  executed,  makes  things 
extremely  uncomfortable  for  the  enemy  avi- 
ator. This  system  consists  in  so  gauging  the 
fire  of  the  anti-aircraft  guns  that  the  airman 
finds  himself  in  a  "box"  of  shrapnel;  that  is, 
one  shell  is  timed  to  burst  directly  in  front  of 
the  machine,  another  behind  it,  one  above,  one 
below,  and  one  on  either  side.  The  dimensions 
of  this  "box"  of  bursting  shrapnel  are  gradu- 
ally made  smaller,  so  that,  unless  the  aviator 
recognizes  his  danger  in  time,  escape  becomes 
impossible,  and  he  is  done  for.  Occasionally 
an  aviator,  finding  himself  caught  in  such  a 
death-trap,  pretends  that  he  has  been  hit,  and 
lets  his  machine  flutter  helplessly  earthward, 
like  a  wounded  bird,  until  the  gunners,  be- 
lieving themselves  certain  of  their  prey, 
cease  firing,  whereupon  the  airman  skilfully 
"catches"  himself,  and,  straightening  the 
planes  of  his  machine,  goes  soaring  off  to 
safety.  Navarre,  one  of  the  most  daring  of 


160  ITALY    AT    WAR 

the  French  fliers,  so  perfected  himself  in  the 
execution  of  this  hazardous  ruse  that  he  would 
let  go  of  the  controls  and  permit  his  machine 
to  literally  fall,  sometimes  from  a  height  of  a 
mile  or  more,  making  no  attempt  at  recovery 
until  within  sixty  metres  of  the  ground,  when 
he  would  save  himself  by  a  hawk-like  swoop  in 
which  his  wheels  would  actually  graze  the  earth. 
The  organization  of  the  French  air  service, 
with  its  system  of  airplane  and  seaplane 
squadrons,  dirigibles  and  observation  balloons, 
schools,  repair-shops,  and  manufactories,  is  en- 
tirely an  outgrowth  of  the  war.  The  airplanes 
are  organized  in  escadrilles,  usually  composed 
of  ten  machines  each,  for  three  distinct  pur- 
poses. The  bombardment  squadrons  are  made 
up  of  slow  machines  with  great  carrying  capac- 
ity, such  as  the  Voisin;  the  pursuit  or  battle 
squadrons — the  escadrilles  de  chasse — are  com- 
posed of  small  and  very  fast  'planes,  such  as 
the  Spad  and  Nieuport;  while  the  general 
utility  squadrons,  used  for  reconnoissance,  ar- 
tillery regulation,  and  photographing,  usually 


I* 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         161 

consist  of  medium-speed,  two-passenger  ma- 
chines like  the  Farman  and  the  Caudron. 

Until  very  recently  the  Nieuport  biplane, 
which  can  attain  a  speed  of  one  hundred  and 
ten  miles  an  hour,  has  been  considered  the 
fastest  and  most  efficient,  as  it  is  the  smallest, 
of  the  French  battle-planes,  but  it  is  now  out- 
speeded  by  the  new  Spad*  machine,  which  has 
reached  a  speed  of  over  one  hundred  and 
twenty  miles  an  hour,  and  of  which  great  hopes 
are  entertained.  The  Spad,  like  the  Nieuport, 
is  a  one-man  apparatus,  the  machine-gun 
mounted  on  its  upper  plane  being  fired  by  the 
pilot  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  hand 
and  his  feet  he  operates  his  controls.  On  the 
"tractors,"  as  the  airplanes  having  the  pro- 
pellers in  front  are  called,  the  machine-guns 
are  synchronized  so  as  to  fire  between  the 
whirling  blades.  Garros,  the  famous  French 
flier,  was  the  first  man  to  perfect  a  device  for 
firing  a  machine-gun  through  a  propeller.  He 
armored  the  blades  so  that  if  struck  by  a  bullet 

*  A  nickname  for  the  Hispana-Suiza, 


162  ITALY    AT    WAR 

they  would  not  be  injured.  This  was  greatly 
improved  upon  by  the  Germans  in  the  Fokker 
type,  the  fire  of  the  machine-guns  being  auto- 
matically regulated  so  that  it  is  never  dis- 
charged when  a  blade  of  the  propeller  is  di- 
rectly in  front  of  the  muzzle.  Since  then 
various  forms  of  this  device  have  been  adapted 
by  all  the  belligerents.  Another  novel  devel- 
opment of  aerial  warfare  is  the  miniature  wire- 
less-sending apparatus  with  which  most  of  the 
observation  and  artillery  regulation  machines 
are  now  equipped,  thus  enabling  the  observers 
to  keep  in  constant  touch  with  the  ground.  In 
addition  to  developing  the  fastest  possible  bat- 
tle-planes, the  French  are  making  efforts  to 
build  more  formidable  craft  for  bombing  pur- 
poses. The  latest  of  these  is  a  Voisin  triplane, 
which  has  a  total  lifting  capacity  of  two  tons, 
carries  a  crew  of  five  men,  and  is  driven  by  four 
propellers,  each  operated  by  a  210-horse-power 
Hispana- Suiza  motor.  These  new  motors 
weigh  only  about  two  hundred  kilograms,  or 
a  little  over  two  pounds  per  horse-power. 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"        163 

During  the  past  year  the  French  have  made 
most  of  their  raids  by  nights.  One  reason  for 
this  is  that  raiding  craft,  which  are  compara- 
tively slow  machines,  are  so  heavily  laden  with 
bombs  that  they  are  only  able  to  perform 
straight  flying  and  hence  are  easily  brought 
down  by  the  fast  and  quick-turning  battle- 
planes. Daylight  raids,  moreover,  necessitate 
an  escorting  fleet  of  fighting  craft  in  order  to 
protect  the  bombing  machines,  just  as  a  dread- 
nought has  to  be  protected  by  a  screen  of  de- 
stroyers. Though  the  dangers  of  flying  are 
considerably  increased  by  darkness,  the  French 
believe  this  is  more  than  compensated  for  by 
the  fact  that,  being  comparatively  safe  from 
attack  by  enemy  aircraft  or  from  the  fire  of 
anti-aircraft  guns,  the  raiders  can  fly  at  a  much 
lower  altitude  and  consequently  have  a  much 
better  chance  of  hitting  their  targets. 

One  of  the  extremely  important  uses  to 
which  airplanes  are  now  put  is  the  destruction 
of  the  enemy's  observation  balloons,  on  which 
he  depends  for  the  regulation  of  his  artillery 


164  ITALY    AT    WAR 

fire.  An  airplane  which  is  to  be  used  for  this 
work  is  specially  fitted  with  a  number  of  rocket 
tubes  which  project  in  all  directions,  so  that 
it  looks  like  a  pipe-organ  gone  on  a  spree.  The 
rockets,  which  are  fired  by  means  of  a  keyboard 
not  unlike  that  of  a  clavier,  are  loaded  with  a 
composition  containing  a  large  percentage  of 
phosphorus  and  are  fitted  with  gangs  of  barbed 
hooks.  If  the  rocket  hits  the  balloon  these 
hooks  catch  in  the  envelope  and  hold  it  there, 
while  the  phosphorus  bursts  into  a  flame  which 
it  is  impossible  to  extinguish.  During  the 
fighting  before  Verdun,  eight  French  aviators, 
driving  machines  thus  equipped,  were  ordered 
to  attack  eight  German  balloons.  Six  of  the 
balloons  were  destroyed. 

But  the  very  last  word  in  aeronautical  de- 
velopment is  what  might  be  called,  for  want 
of  a  better  term,  an  aerial  submarine.  I  refer 
to  seaplanes  carrying  in  clips  beneath  the 
fuselage  specially  constructed  18-inch  torpe- 
does. In  the  under  side  of  this  type  of  torpedo 
is  an  opening.  When  the  torpedo  is  dropped 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         165 

into  the  sea  the  water,  pouring  into  this  open- 
ing, sets  the  propelling  mechanism  in  motion 
and  the  projectile  goes  tearing  away  on  its 
errand  of  destruction  precisely  as  though  fired 
from  the  torpedo-tube  of  a  submarine.  It  may 
be  recalled  that  some  months  ago  the  papers 
printed  an  account  of  a  Turkish  transport, 
loaded  with  soldiers,  having  been  torpedoed  in 
the  Sea  of  Marmora,  the  accepted  explanation 
being  that  a  submarine  had  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing its  way  through  the  Dardanelles.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  that  transport  was  sunk  by  a 
torpedo  dropped  from  the  air  I  The  pilot  of  a 
Short  seaplane  had  winged  his  way  over  the 
Gallipoli  Peninsula,  had  sighted  the  troop- 
laden  transport  steaming  across  the  Marmora 
Sea,  and,  volplaning  down  until  he  was  only 
twenty-five  feet  above  the  water  and  a  few 
hundred  yards  from  the  doomed  vessel,  had 
jerked  the  lever  which  released  the  torpedo. 
As  it  struck  the  water  its  machinery  was  auto- 
matically set  going,  something  that  looked  like 
a  giant  cigar  went  streaking  through  the  waves 


166  ITALY    AT    WAR 

.  .  .  there  was  a  shattering  explosion,  and 
when  the  smoke  cleared  away  the  transport  had 
disappeared.  Whereupon  the  airman,  his  mis- 
sion accomplished,  flew  back  to  his  base  in  the 
-ZEgean.  There  may  be  stranger  developments 
of  the  war  than  that,  but  if  so  I  have  not  heard 
of  them. 

France  is  now  (April,  1917)  turning  out 
between  eight  hundred  and  a  thousand  com- 
pletely equipped  airplanes  a  month,  but  a  con- 
siderable proportion  of  these  are  for  the  use 
of  her  allies.  I  have  asked  many  persons  who 
ought  to  know  how  many  airplanes  France 
has  in  commission,  and,  though  the  replies 
varied  considerably,  I  should  say  that  she  has 
at  present  somewhere  between  five  thousand 
and  seven  thousand  machines  in  or  ready  to 
take  the  air.* 

Leaving  Chalons  in  the  gray  dawn  of  a  win- 
ter's morn,  we  fled  southward  again,  through 

*  Though  great  numbers  of  American-built  airplanes  have 
been  shipped  to  Europe,  they  are  being  used  only  for  purposes 
of  instruction,  as  they  are  not  considered  fast  enough  for  work 
on  the  front. 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         167 

Bar-le-Duc  (the  place,  you  know,  where  the 
jelly  comes  from)  the  words  "Caves  voutes" 
chalked  on  the  doors  of  those  buildings  having 
vaulted  cellars  showing  that  air  raids  were  of 
frequent  occurrence,  and  so,  through  steadily 
increasing  traffic,  to  Souilly,  the  obscure  ham- 
let from  which  was  directed  the  defense  of 
Verdun.  In  the  centre  of  the  cobble-paved 
Grande  Place  stood  the  Mairie,  a  two-story 
building  in  the  uncompromising  style  charac- 
teristic of  most  French  provincial  architecture. 
At  the  foot  of  the  steps  stood  two  sentries  in 
mud-caked  uniforms  and  dented  helmets,  and 
through  the  front  door  flowed  an  endless  stream 
of  staff-officers,  orderlies,  messengers,  and 
mud-spattered  despatch  riders.  In  this  village 
mcdrie,  a  score  of  miles  behind  the  firing-line, 
were  centred  the  nerve  and  vascular  systems 
of  an  army  of  half  a  million  men;  here  was 
planned  and  directed  the  greatest  battle  of  all 
time.  On  the  upper  floor,  in  a  large,  light, 
scantily  furnished  room,  a  man  with  a  great 
silver  star  on  the  breast  of  his  light-blue  tunic 


168  ITALY    AT    WAR 

sat  at  a  table,  bent  over  a  map.  He  had  rather 
sparse  gray  hair  and  a  gray  mustache  and  a 
little  tuft  of  gray  below  the  lower  lip.  His 
eyes  were  sunken  and  tired-looking,  as  though 
from  lack  of  sleep,  and  his  face  and  forehead 
were  deeply  lined,  but  he  gave  the  impression, 
nevertheless,  of  possessing  immense  vitality 
and  energy.  He  was  a  broad-shouldered,  sol- 
idly built,  four-square  sort  of  man,  with  cool, 
level  eyes,  and  a  quiet,  almost  taciturn  manner. 
It  was  General  Robert  Nivelle,  the  man  who 
held  Verdun  for  France.  He  it  was  who,  when 
the  fortress  was  quivering  beneath  the  Ger- 
mans' sledge-hammer  blows,  had  quietly  re- 
marked: "They  shall  not  pass!"  And  they 
did  not. 

I  did  not  remain  long  with  General  Nivelle ; 
to  have  taken  much  of  such  a  man's  time  would 
have  been  a  rank  impertinence.  I  would  go 
to  Verdun?  he  inquired.  Yes,  with  his  per- 
mission, I  answered.  Everything  had  been 
arranged,  he  assured  me.  An  officer  who  knew 
America  well — Commandant  Bunau-Varilla, 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         169 

of  Panama  Canal  fame — had  been  assigned  to 
go  with  me.*  As  I  was  leaving  I  attempted  to 
express  to  him  the  admiration  which  I  felt  for 
the  fashion  in  which  he  had  conducted  the 
Great  Defense.  But  with  a  gesture  he  waved 
the  compliment  aside.  "It  is  the  men  out 
there  in  the  trenches  who  should  -be  thanked," 
he  said.  "They  are  the  ones  who  are  holding 
Verdun."  I  took  away  with  me  the  impres- 
sion of  a  man  as  stanch,  as  confident,  as  un- 
conquerable as  the  city  he  had  so  heroically 
defended.  A  few  weeks  later  he  was  to  succeed 
Marshal  Joff re  to  the  highest  field  command  in 
the  gift  of  the  French  Government. 

It  is  twenty  miles  from  Souilly  to  Verdun, 
and  the  road  has  come  to  be  known  as  La  Voie 
Sacre — the  Sacred  Way — because  on  the  un- 
interrupted flow  of  ammunition  and  supplies 
over  that  road  depended  the  safety  of  the 
fortress.  Three  thousand  men  with  picks  and 
shovels,  working  day  and  night,  kept  the  road 

*  Commandant  Bunau-Varilla  was  really  sent  as  a  compliment 
to  my  companion,  Mr.  Arthur  Page,  editor  of  The  World's  Work. 


170  ITALY    AT    WAR 

in  condition  to  bear  up  under  the  enormous 
volume  of  traffic.  The  railway  to  Verdun  was 
so  repeatedly  cut  by  German  shells  that  the 
French  built  a  narrow-gauge  line,  which  zig- 
zags over  the  hills.  Beside  the  road,  at  fre- 
quent intervals,  I  noted  cisterns  and  watering- 
troughs,  and  huge  overhead  water-tanks;  for 
an  army — men,  horses,  and  motor-cars — is  in- 
credibly thirsty.  This  elaborate  water  system 

is  the  work  of  Major  Bunau-Varilla,  who, 

I 

fittingly  enough,  is  the  head  of  the  Service 
d'Eau  des  Armees. 

Half  a  dozen  miles  out  of  Souilly  we  crossed 
the  watershed  between  the  Seine  and  the 
Rhine  and  were  in  the  valley  of  the  Meuse.  On 
the  other  side  of  yonder  hill,  whence  came  a 
constant  muttering  of  cannon,  was,  I  knew, 
the  Unconquerable  City. 

While  yet  Verdun  itself  was  out  of  sight, 
we  came,  quite  unexpectedly,  upon  one  of  its 
mightiest  defenders:  a  400-millimetre  gun 
mounted  on  a  railway-truck.  So  streaked  and 
striped  and  splashed  and  mottled  with  many 


0  « 

j=  ft 


00      *j  g 

<  ^s 


The  Eyes  of  the  Guns. 

The  fire  of  the  artillery  is  regulated  by  the  officers  in  the  observation  balloons. 
Their  destruction  means,  therefore,  the  blinding  of  the  guns. 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         171 

colors  was  it  that,  monster  though  it  was,  it 
escaped  my  notice  until  we  were  almost  upon 
it.  Suddenly  a  score  or  more  of  grimy  men, 
its  crew,  came  pelting  down  the  track,  as  sub- 
way laborers  run  for  shelter  when  a  blast  is 
about  to  be  set  off.  A  moment  later  came  a 
mighty  bellow;  from  the  up -turned  nose  of 
the  monster  burst  a  puff  of  smoke  pierced 
by  a  tongue  of  flame,  and  an  invisible  express- 
train  went  roaring  eastward  in  the  direction 
of  the  German  lines.  This  was  the  mighty 
weapon  of  which  I  had  heard  rumors  but  had 
never  seen:  the  great  16-inch  howitzer  with 
which  the  French  had  so  pounded  Fort  Douau- 
mont  as  to  cause  its  evacuation  by  the  Ger- 
mans. 

The  French  artillerists  were  such  firm  be- 
lievers in  the  superiority  of  light  over  heavy 
artillery,  and  pinned  such  faith  to  their  75's, 
that  they  had  paid  scant  attention  to  the  ques- 
tion of  heavy  mobile  guns.  Hence  when  the 
German  tidal  wave  rolled  Parisward  in  1914, 
the  only  heavy  artillery  possessed  by  the 


172  ITALY    AT    WAR 

French  consisted  of,  a  very  few  4.2-inch  Creusot 
guns  of  a  model  adopted  just  prior  to  the  war, 
and  a  limited  number  of  batteries  of  4.8-inch 
and  6.1-inch  guns  and  howitzers;  all  of  them, 
save  only  the  6.1-inch  Rimailho  howitzer  of 
1904,  being  models  twenty  to  forty  years  old. 
These  pieces  were,  of  course,  vastly  outclassed 
in  range  and  smashing  power  by  the  heavy 
guns  of  the  Central  Powers,  such  as  the  Ger- 
man 420's  (the  famous  "42's")  and  the  Aus- 
trian 380's.  Undismayed,  however,  the  French 
set  energetically  to  work  to  make  up  their 
deficiencies.  As  it  takes  time  to  manufacture 
guns,  large  numbers  of  naval  pieces  were 
pressed  into  service,  most  of  them  being 
mounted  on  railway-trucks,  thus  insuring  ex- 
treme mobility.  The  German  42's,  I  might 
mention  in  passing,  lack  this  very  essential 
quality,  as  they  can  be  fired  only  from  specially 
built  concrete  bases,  from  which  they  cannot 
readily  be  moved.  The  two  German  42's 
which  pounded  to  pieces  the  barrier  forts  of 
Antwerp  were  mounted  on  concrete  platforms 


o  = 

I! 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         173 

behind  a  railway  embankment  near  Malines, 
where  they  remained  throughout  the  siege  of 
the  city. 

Some  idea  may  be  had  of  the  variety  of  artil- 
lery in  use  on  the  French  front  when  I  mention 
that  there  are  at  least  eleven  calibers  of  guns, 
howitzers,  and  mortars,  ranging  in  size  from 
9  inches  to  20.8  inches,  in  action  between 
Switzerland  and  the  Somme.  All  of  these, 
with  a  very  few  exceptions,  are  mounted  on 
railway-trucks.  In  fact,  the  only  large  cali- 
ber ed  piece  not  thus  mounted  is  the  Schneider 
mortar,  a  very  efficient  weapon,  having  a  re- 
markably smooth  recoil,  which  has  a  range  of 
over  six  miles.  It  is  transported,  with  its  car- 
riage and  platform,  in  six  loads,  each  weigh- 
ing from  four  to  five  tons,  about  four  hours 
being  required  to  set  up  the  piece  ready  for 
firing.  Nearly  all  of  these  railway  guns  are,  I 
understand,  naval  or  coast-defense  pieces,  some 
of  them  being  long-range  weapons  cut  down  to 
form  howitzers  or  mortars,  while  others  have 
been  created  by  boring  to  a  larger  caliber  a  gun 


174  ITALY    AT    WAR 

whose  rifling  had  been  worn  out  in  use.  For  ex- 
ample, the  400-millimetre,  already  referred  to 
as  having  proved  so  effective  against  Douau- 
mont,  was,  I  am  told,  made  by  cutting  down 
and  boring  out  a  13.6-inch  naval  gun.  But  the 
master  gun,  the  very  latest  product  of  French 
brains  and  French  foundries,  is  the  huge  520- 
millimetre  (20.8-inch)  howitzer  which  has  just 
been  completed  at  the  Schneider  works  at 
Creusot.  This,  the  largest  gun  in  existence, 
has  a  length  of  16  calibers  (that  is,  sixteen 
times  its  bore,  or  approximately  28  feet),  and 
weighs  60  tons.  It  fires  a  shell  7  feet  long, 
weighing  nearly  3,000  pounds,  and  carrying 
a  bursting  charge  of  660  pounds  of  high  ex- 
plosive. Its  range  is  18  kilometres,  or  a  little 
over  eleven  miles,  though  this  can  probably  be 
increased  if  desired.  This  is  France's  answer 
to  the  German  42's,  and,  just  as  the  latter  shat- 
tered the  forts  of  Liege,  Antwerp,  and  Namur, 
so  these  new  French  titans  will,  it  is  confidently 
believed,  humble  the  pride  of  Metz  and  Stras- 
bourg. 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         175 

So  insistent  has  been  the  demand  from  the 
front  for  big  guns,  and  yet  more  big  guns, 
that  new  batteries  are  being  formed  every  day. 
Generally  speaking,  the  French  plan  is  to  as- 
sign short-range  howitzers  and  mortars  to  the 
division;  the  longer  range,  horse-drawn  guns 
— hippomobile  the  French  designate  them — to 
the  army  corps ;  while  the  tractor-drawn  pieces 
and  those  mounted  on  railway-carriages  are 
placed  directly  under  the  orders  of  the  chief 
of  artillery  of  each  army. 

A  new,  and  in  many  respects  one  of  the  most 
effective  weapons  produced  by  the  war  is  the 
trench  mortar.  These  light  and  mobile  weap- 
ons, of  which  the  French  have  at  least  four  cali- 
bers, ranging  from  58-millimetres  to  340-milli- 
metres,  are  under  the  direction  of  the  artillery, 
and  should  not  be  confused  with  the  various 
types  of  bomb-throwers,  which  are  operated  by 
the  infantry.  The  latest  development  in  trench 
weapons  is  the  Van  Deuren  mortar,  which 
takes  its  name  from  the  Belgian  officer  who  is 
its  inventor.  Its  chief  peculiarity  lies  in  the 


176  ITALY    AT    WAR 

fact  that  its  barrel  consists  of  a  solid  core  in- 
stead of  a  hollow  tube  like  all  other  guns.  At- 
tached to  the  base  of  the  shell  is  a  hollow 
winged  shaft  which  fits  over  the  core  of  the 
gun,  the  desired  range  being  obtained  by  vary- 
ing the  length  of  the  powder-chamber:  that 
is,  the  distance  between  the  end  of  the  barrel 
and  the  base  of  the  shell  proper.  The  gun  is 
fired  at  a  fixed  elevation,  and  is  so  small  and 
light  that  it  can  readily  be  moved  and  set  up 
by  a  couple  of  men  in  a  few  minutes.  In  no 
branch  of  the  artillery  has  such  advancement 
been  made  as  in  the  trench  mortars,  which  have 
now  attained  almost  as  great  a  degree  of  accu- 
racy as  the  field-gun.  Such  great  importance 
is  attached  to  the  trench  mortars  by  the  Ital- 
ians that  they  have  formed  them  into  a  distinct 
arm  of  the  service,  entirely  independent  of  the 
artillery,  the  officers  of  the  trench-mortar  bat- 
teries, who  are  drawn  from  the  cavalry,  being 
trained  at  a  special  school. 

The  city  of  Verdun,  or  rather  the  blackened 
ruins  which  are  all  that  remain  of  it,  stands  in 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         177 

the  centre  of  a  great  valley  which  is  shaped 
not  unlike  a  platter.  Down  this  valley,  split- 
ting the  city  in  half,  meanders  the  River 
Meuse.  The  houses  of  Verdun,  like  those  of 
so  many  mediaeval  cities,  are  clustered  about 
the  foot  of  a  great  fortified  rock.  From  this 
rock  Vauban,  at  the  order  of  Louis  XIV, 
blasted  ramparts  and  battlements.  To  meet 
the  constantly  changing  conditions  of  warfare, 
later  generations  of  engineers  gradually  honey- 
combed the  rock  with  passages,  tunnels,  maga- 
zines, store-rooms,  halls,  and  casemates,  a  veri- 
table labyrinth  of  them,  thus  creating  the  pres- 
ent Citadel  of  Verdun.  Then,  because  the  city 
and  its  citadel  lie  in  the  middle  of  a  valley 
dominated  by  hills — like  a  lump  of  sugar  in 
the  middle  of  a  platter — upon  those  hills  was 
built  a  chain  of  barrier  forts:  La  Chaume, 
Tavannes,  Thiaumont,  Vaux,  Douaumont,  and 
others.  But  when,  at  Liege  and  Namur,  at 
Antwerp  and  Maubeuge,  the  Germans  proved 
conclusively  that  no  forts  could  long  withstand 
the  battering  of  their  heavy  guns,  the  French 


178  ITALY    AT    WAR 

took  instant  profit  by  the  lesson.  They 
promptly  left  the  citadel  and  the  forts  nearest 
to  it  and  established  themselves  in  trenches  on 
the  surrounding  hills,  taking  with  them  their 
artillery.  This  trench-line  ran  through  certain 
of  the  small  outlying  forts,  such  as  Tavannes, 
Thiaumont,  Douaumont,  and  Vaux,  and  that 
is  why  you  have  read  in  the  papers  so  much 
of  the  desperate  fighting  about  them.  Thus 
the  much-talked-of  fortress  of  Verdun  was  no 
longer  a  fortress  at  all,  but  merely  a  sector  in 
that  battle-line  which  extends  from  the  Chan- 
nel to  the  Alps.  Barring  its  historic  associa- 
tions, and  the  moral  effect  which  its  fall  might 
have  in  France  and  abroad,  its  capture  by  the 
Germans  would  have  had  no  more  strategic 
importance,  if  as  much,  than  if  the  French 
line  had  been  bent  back  for  a  few  miles  at 
Rheims,  or  Soissons,  or  Thann.  The  Vauban 
citadel  in  the  city  became  merely  an  advanced 
headquarters,  a  telephone  exchange,  a  supply 
station,  a  sort  of  central  office,  from  the  safety 
of  whose  subterranean  casemates  General  Du- 


"THEY    SHALL   NOT    PASS!"        179 

bois,  the  commander  of  the  city,  directed  the 
execution  of  the  orders  which  he  received  from 
General  Nivelle  at  Souilly,  twenty  miles  away. 
Though  the  citadel's  massive  walls  have  re- 
sisted the  terrific  bombardments  to  which  it 
has  been  subjected,  it  has  neither  guns  nor 
garrison:  they  are  far  out  on  the  trench-line 
beyond  the  encircling  hills.  It  has,  in  fact, 
precisely  the  same  relation  to  the  defense  of 
the  Verdun  sector  that  Governor's  Island  has 
to  the  defense  of  New  York.  This  it  is  im- 
portant that  you  should  keep  in  mind.  It 
should  also  be  remembered  that  Verdun  was 
held  not  for  strategic  but  for  political  and 
sentimental  reasons.  The  French  military 
chiefs,  as  soon  as  they  learned  of  the  impend- 
ing German  offensive,  favored  the  evacuation 
of  the  city,  whose  defense,  they  argued,  would 
necessitate  the  sacrifice  of  thousands  of  lives 
without  any  corresponding  strategic  benefit. 
But  the  heads  of  the  Government  in  Paris 
looked  at  things  from  a  different  point  of  view. 
They  realized  that,  no  matter  how  negligible 


180  ITALY    AT    WAR 

was  its  military  value,  the  people  of  other 
countries,  and,  indeed,  the  French  people 
themselves,  believed  that  Verdun  was  a  great 
fortress;  they  knew  that  its  capture  by  the 
Germans  would  be  interpreted  by  the  world 
as  a  French  disaster  and  that  the  morale  of 
the  French  people,  and  French  prestige 
abroad,  would  suffer  accordingly.  So,  at  the 
eleventh  hour  and  fifty-ninth  minute,  when 
the  preparations  for  evacuating  the  city  were 
all  but  complete,  imperative  word  was  flashed 
from  Paris  that  it  must  be  held.  And  it  was. 
jCostly  though  the  defense  has  been,  the  re- 
sult has  justified  it.  The  Crown  Prince  lost 
what  little  military  reputation  he  possessed — 
if  he  had  any  to  lose;  his  armies  lost  600,000 
men  in  dead  and  wounded;  and  the  world  was 
shown  that  German  guns  and  German  bay- 
onets, no  matter  how  overwhelming  in  number, 
cannot  break  down  the  steel  walls  of  France. 
It  was  my  great  good  fortune,  when  the 
fate  of  Verdun  still  hung  in  the  balance,  to 
visit  the  city  and  to  lunch  with  General  Dubois 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         181 

and  his  staff  in  the  citadel.  Though  the  valor 
of  the  French  infantry  kept  the  Germans 
from  entering  Verdun,  nothing  could  prevent 
the  entrance  of  their  shells.  Seven  hundred 
fell  in  one  day.  Not  a  single  house  in  a  city  of 
40,000  inhabitants  remains  intact.  The  place 
looks  as  though  it  had  been  visited  simulta- 
neously by  the  San  Francisco  earthquake,  the 
Baltimore  fire,  and  the  Johnstown  flood.  But 
once  in  the  shelter  of  the  citadel  and  we  were 
safe.  Though  German  shells  of  large  caliber 
were  falling  in  the  city  at  frequent  intervals, 
the  casemate  in  which  we  lunched  was  so  far 
beneath  the  surface  of  the  earth  that  the  sound 
of  the  explosions  did  not  reach  us.  It  was  as 
though  we  were  lunching  in  a  New  York  sub- 
way station:  a  great,  vaulted,  white-tiled 
room  aglare  with  electric  lights.  We  sat  with 
General  Dubois  and  the  members  of  his  imme- 
diate staff  at  a  small  table  close  to  the  huge 
range  on  which  the  cooking  was  being  done, 
while  down  the  middle  of  the  room  stretched 
one  of  the  longest  tables  I  have  ever  seen,  at 


182  ITALY    AT    WAR 

which  upward  of  a  hundred  officers — and  one 
civilian — were  eating.  This  lone  civilian  was 
a  commissaire  of  police,  and  the  sole  represen- 
tative of  the  city's  civil  population.  When 
the  Tsar  bestowed  the  Cross  of  St.  George  on 
the  city  in  recognition  of  its  heroic  defense,  it 
was  to  this  policeman,  the  only  civilian  who  re- 
mained, that  the  Russian  representative  handed 
the  hadge  of  the  famous  order. 

The  dejeuner,  though  simple,  was  as  well 
cooked  and  well  served  as  though  we  were 
seated  in  a  Paris  restaurant  instead  of  in  a 
besieged  fortress.  And  the  first  course  was 
fresh  lobster!  I  told  General  Dubois  that  my 
friends  at  home  would  raise  their  eyebrows  in- 
credulously when  I  told  them  this,  whereupon 
he  took  a  menu — for  they  had  menus — and 
across  it  wrote  his  name  and  "Citadel  de  Ver- 
dun," and  the  date.  "Perhaps  that  will  con- 
vince them,"  he  said,  passing  it  to  me.  By 
this  I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  the  French 
commanders  live  in  luxury.  Far  from  it! 
But,  though  their  food  is  very  simple,  it  is 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         183 

always  well  cooked  (which  is  very  far  from 
being  the  case  in  our  own  army),  and  it  is 
appetizingly  served  whenever  circumstances 
permit. 

After  luncheon,  under  the  guidance  of  the 
general,  I  made  the  rounds  of  the  citadel. 
Here,  so  far  beneath  the  earth  as  to  be  safe 
from  even  the  largest  shells,  was  the  telephone- 
room,  the  nerve-centre  of  the  whole  compli- 
cated system  of  defense,  with  a  switchboard 
larger  than  those  in  the  "central  office"  of 
many  an  American  city.  By  means  of  the 
thousands  of  wires  focussed  in  that  little  un- 
derground room,  General  Dubois  was  enabled 
to  learn  in  an  instant  what  was  transpiring 
at  Douaumont  or  Tavannes  or  Vaux ;  he  could 
pass  on  the  information  thus  obtained  to  Gen- 
eral Nivelle  at  Souilly;  or  he  could  talk  direct 
to  the  Ministry  of  War,  in  Paris.  I  might 
add  that  one  of  the  most  difficult  problems 
met  with  in  this  war  has  been  the  maintenance 
of  communications  during  an  attack.  The 
telephone  is  the  means  most  generally  relied 


184  ITALY   AT    WAR 

upon,  but  in  spite  of  multiplying  the  number 
of  lines,  they  are  all  usually  put  out  of  com- 
mission during  the  preliminary  bombardment, 
the  wires  connecting  the  citadel  with  Fort 
Douaumont  and  Fort  de  Vaux,  for  example, 
being  repeatedly  destroyed.  For  this  reason 
several  alternative  means  of  communication 
have  always  to  be  provided,  among  these  be- 
ing flares  and  light-balls,  carrier-pigeons,  of 
which  the  French  make  considerable  use,  and 
optical  signalling  apparatus,  this  last  method 
having  been  found  the  most  effective.  Some- 
times small  wireless  outfits  are  used  when  the 
conditions  permit.  On  a  few  occasions  trained 
dogs  have  been  used  to  send  back  messages, 
but,  the  pictures  in  the  illustrated  papers  to 
the  contrary,  they  have  not  proven  a  success. 
In  the  final  resort,  the  most  ancient  method 
of  all — the  despatch  bearer  or  runner — has 
still  very  frequently  to  be  employed,  making 
his  hazardous  trips  on  a  motor-cycle  when  he 
can,  on  foot  when  he  must. 

In  the  room  next  to  the  telephone  bureau 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         185 

a  dozen  clerks  were  at  work  and  typewriters 
were  clicking  busily;  had  it  not  been  for  the 
uniforms  one  might  have  taken  the  place  for 
the  office  of  a  large  and  busy  corporation,  as, 
in  a  manner  of  speaking,  it  was.  On  another 
level  were  the  bakeries  which  supplied  the 
bread  for  the  troops  in  the  trenches ;  enormous 
storerooms  filled  with  supplies  of  every  de- 
scription; an  admirably  equipped  hospital 
with  every  cot  occupied,  usually  by  a  "shrap- 
nel case";  a  flag-trimmed  hall  used  by  the 
officers  as  a  club-room;  and,  on  the  upper 
levels,  mess-halls  and  sleeping-quarters  for  the 
men.  Despite  the  terrible  strain  of  the  long- 
continued  bombardment,  the  soldiers  seemed 
surprisingly  cheerful,  going  about  their  work 
in  the  long,  gloomy  passages  joking  and 
whistling.  They  sleep  when  and  where  they 
can :  on  the  bunks  in  the  fetid  air  of  the  case- 
mates ;  on  the  steps  of  the  steep  staircases  that 
burrow  deep  into  the  ground;  or  on  the  con- 
crete floors  of  the  innumerable  galleries.  But 
sleeping  is  not  easy  in  Verdun. 


186  ITALY    AT    WAR 

A  short  distance  to  the  southwest  of  Ver- 
dun, on  the  bare  face  of  a  hill,  is  Fort  de  la 
Chaume.  Like  the  other  fortifications  built  to 
defend  the  city,  it  no  longer  has  any  military 
value  save  for  purposes  of  observation.  Peer- 
ing through  a  narrow  slit  in  one  of  its  armored 
dbservatoires,  I  was  able  to  view  the  whole 
field  of  the  world's  greatest  battle — a  battle 
which  lasted  a  year  and  cost  a  million  men — 
as  from  the  gallery  of  a  theatre  one  might 
look  down  upon  the  stage,  the  boxes,  and  the 
orchestra-stalls.  Below  me,  rising  from  the 
meadows  beside  the  Meuse,  were  the  shattered 
roofs  and  fire-blackened  walls  of  Verdun, 
dominated  by  the  stately  tower  of  the  cathe- 
dral and  by  the  great  bulk  of  the  citadel.  The 
environs  of  the  town  and  the  hill  slopes  be- 
yond the  river  were  constantly  pricked  by 
sudden  scarlet  jets  as  the  flame  leaped  from 
the  mouths  of  the  carefully  concealed  French 
guns,  which  seemed  to  be  literally  everywhere, 
while  countless  geyser-like  irruptions  of  the 
earth,  succeeded  by  drifting  patches  of  white 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         1ST 

vapor,  showed  where  the  German  shells  were 
bursting.  Sweeping  the  landscape  with  my 
field-glasses,  a  long  column  of  motor-trucks 
laden  with  -ammunition  came  within  my  field 
of  vision.  As  I  looked  there  suddenly  ap- 
peared, squarely  in  the  path  of  the  foremost 
vehicle,  a  splotch  of  yellow  smoke  shot  through 
with  red.  When  the  smoke  and  dust  had 
cleared  away,  the  motor-truck  had  disap- 
peared. The  artillery  officer  who  accompanied 
me  directed  my  gaze  across  the  level  valley  to 
where,  beyond  the  river,  rose  the  great  brown 
ridge  known  as  the  Heights  of  the  Meuse. 

"Do  you  appreciate,"  he  asked,  "that  on 
three  miles  of  that  ridge  a  million  men — 
400,000  French  and  600,000  Germans — have 
already  fallen?" 

Beyond  the  ridge,  but  hidden  by  it,  were 
Hill  304  and  Le  Mort  Homme  of  bloody  mem- 
ory, while  on  the  horizon,  looking  like  low, 
round-topped  hillocks,  were  Forts  Douaumont 
and  de  Vaux  (what  a  thrill  those  names  must 
give  to  every  Frenchman!)  and  farther  down 


188  ITALY   AT   WAR 

the  slope  and  a  little  nearer  me  were  Fleury 
and  Tavannes.  The  fountains  of  earth  and 
smoke  which  leaped  upward  from  each  of  them 
at  the  rate  of  half  a  dozen  to  the  minute, 
showed  us  that  they  were  enduring  a  particu- 
larly vicious  hammering  by  the  Germans. 

There  are  no  words  between  the  covers  of 
the  dictionary  which  can  bring  home  to  one 
who  has  not  witnessed  them  the  awful  violence 
of  the  shell-storms  which  have  desolated  these 
hills  about  Verdun.  In  one  week's  attack  to 
the  north  of  the  city  the  Germans  threw  five 
million  shells,  the  total  weight  of  which  was 
forty-seven  thousand  tons.  Eighty  thousand 
shells  rained  upon  one  shallow  sector  of  a  thou- 
sand yards,  and  these  were  so  marvellously 
placed  that  the  crater  of  one  cut  into  that  of 
its  neighbor,  pulverizing  everything  that  lived 
and  turning  the  man-filled  trenches  into  tombs. 
Hence  there  is  no  longer  any  such  thing  as  a 
continuous  line  of  trenches.  Indeed,  there  are 
no  longer  any  trenches  at  all,  nor  entangle- 
ments either,  but  only  a  series  of  craters.  It 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         189 

is  these  craters  which  the  French  infantry  has 
held  with  such  unparalleled  heroism.  The 
men  holding  the  craters  are  kept  supplied  with 
food  and  ammunition  from  the  chain  of  little 
forts — Vaux,  Douaumont,  and  the  others — 
and  the  forts,  themselves  battered  almost  to 
pieces  by  the  torrents  of  steel  which  have  been 
poured  upon  them,  have  relied  in  turn  on  the 
citadel  back  in  Verdun  for  their  reinforce- 
ments, their  ammunition,  and  their  provisions, 
all  of  which  have  had  to  be  sent  out  at  night, 
the  latter  on  the  backs  of  men. 

So  violent  and  long-continued  have  been  the 
hurricanes  of  steel  which  have  swept  these 
slopes,  that  the  surface  of  the  earth  has  been 
literally  blasted  away,  leaving  a  treacherous 
and  incredibly  tenacious  quagmire  in  which 
horses  and  even  soldiers  have  lost  their  lives. 
General  Dubois  told  me  that,  only  a  few  days 
before  my  visit  to  Verdun,  one  of  his  staff- 
officers,  returning  alone  and  afoot  from  an 
errand  to  Vaux,  had  fallen  into  a  shell-crater 
and  had  drowned  in  the  mud.  Indeed,  the 


190  ITALY    AT    WAR 

whole  terrain  is  pitted  with  shell-holes  as  is 
pitted  the  face  of  a  man  who  has  had  the  small- 
pox. So  terrible  is  the  condition  of  the  coun- 
try that  it  often  takes  a  soldier  an  hour  to 
cover  a  mile.  What  was  once  a  smiling  and 
prosperous  countryside  has  been  rendered,  by 
human  agency,  as  barren  and  worthless  as  the 
slopes  of  Vesuvius. 

Verdun,  I  repeat,  was  held  not  by  gun- 
power  but  by  man-power.  It  was  not  the 
monster  guns  on  railway-trucks,  or  even  the 
great  numbers  of  quick-firing,  hard-hitting 
75's,  but  the  magnificent  courage  and  tenacity 
of  the  tired  men  in  the  mud-splashed  uniforms, 
which  held  Verdun  for  France.  Though  their 
forts  were  crumbling  under  the  violence  of  the 
German  bombardment;  though  their  trenches 
were  pounded  into  pudding;  though  the  un- 
ceasing barrage  made  it  at  times  impossible 
to  bring  up  food  or  water  or  reinforcements, 
the  French  hung  stubbornly  on,  and  against 
the  granite  wall  of  their  defense  the  waves  of 
men  in  gray  flung  themselves  in  vain.  And 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"        191 

when  the  fury  of  the  German  assaults  had  in 
a  measure  spent  itself,  General  Nivelle  retook 
in  a  few  hours,  on  October  24,  1916,  Forts 
Douaumont  and  de  Vaux,  which  had  cost  the 
Germans  seven  months  of  incessant  efforts 
and  a  sacrifice  of  human  lives  unparalleled  in 
history. 

The  fighting  before  Verdun  illustrated  and 
emphasized  the  revolution  in  methods  of  at- 
tack and  defense  which  has  taken  place  in  the 
French  army.  At  the  beginning  of  the  war 
the  French  believed  in  depending  largely  on 
their  light  artillery  both  to  prepare  and  to 
support  an  attack,  and  for  this  purpose  their 
75's  were  admirably  adapted.  This  method 
worked  well  when  carried  out  properly,  and 
before  the  Germans  had  time  to  bring  up  their 
heavy  guns;  it  was  by  resorting  to  it  that  the 
French  won  the  victory  of  the  Marne.  But 
the  Marne  taught  the  Germans  that  the  surest 
way  to  break  up  the  French  system  of  attack 
was  to  interpose  obstacles,  such  as  woods,  wire 
entanglements,  and  particularly  trenches.  To 


192  ITALY    AT    WAR 

destroy  these  obstacles  the  French  then  had 
to  resort  to  heavy-calibered  pieces,  with  which, 
as  I  have  already  remarked,  they  were  at  first 
very  inadequately  supplied.  In  the  spring  of 
1915  in  Artois,  and  in  the  autumn  of  the  same 
year  in  Champagne,  they  attempted  to  break 
through  the  German  lines,  but  these  attacks 
were  not  supported  by  sufficient  artillery  and 
were  each  conducted  in  a  single  locality  over  a 
limited  front.  Then,  at  Verdun,  the  Germans 
tried  opposite  tactics,  attempting  to  break 
through  on  a  wide  front  extending  on  both 
sides  of  the  Meuse.  So  appalling  were  their 
losses,  however,  that,  as  the  attack  progressed, 
they  were  compelled  by  lack  of  sufficient  effec- 
tives to  constantly  narrow  their  front  until 
finally  the  action  was  taking  place  along  a  line 
of  only  a  few  kilometres.  This  permitted  the 
French  to  concentrate  both  their  infantry  and 
their  artillery  into  dense  formations,  and  be- 
fore this  concentrated  and  intensive  fire  the 
German  attacking  columns  withered  and  were 
swept  away  like  leaves  before  an  autumn  wind. 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         193 

The  French  infantry — and  the  same  is,  I 
believe,  true  of  the  German — is  now  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes  divided  into  two  classes: 
holding  troops  and  attacking,  or  "shock" 
troops,  as  the  French  call  them.  The  latter 
consist  of  such  picked  elements  as  the  Chas- 
seur battalions,  the  Zouaves,  the  Colonials,  the 
First,  Twentieth,  and  Twenty-first  Army 
Corps,  and,  of  course,  the  Foreign  Legion. 
All  these  are  recruited  from  the  youngest  and 
most  vigorous  men,  due  regard  being  also 
paid  to  selecting  recruits  from  those  parts  of 
France  which  have  always  produced  the  best 
fighting  stock — and  among  these  are  the  in- 
vaded districts.  Shock  troops  are  rarely  sent 
into  the  trenches,  but  when  not  actively  en- 
gaged in  conducting  or  resisting  an  attack,  are 
kept  in  cantonments  well  to  the  rear.  Here 
they  can  get  undisturbed  rest  at  night,  but  by 
day  they  are  worked  as  a  negro  teamster  works 
his  mule.  As  a  result,  they  are  always  "on 
their  toes,"  and  in  perfect  fighting  trim.  In 
this  way  mobility,  cohesion,  and  enthusiasm, 


194  ITALY    AT    WAR 

all  qualities  which  are  seriously  impaired  by 
a  long  stay  in  the  trenches,  are  preserved  in 
the  attacking  troops,  who,  when  they  go  into 
battle,  are  as  keen  and  hard  and  well-trained 
as  a  prize-fighter  who  steps  into  the  ring  to 
battle  for  the  championship  belt. 

The  most  striking  feature  of  the  new  French 
system  of  attack  is  the  team-work  of  the  in- 
fantry, artillery,  and  airplanes.  The  former 
advance  to  the  assault  in  successive  waves, 
each  made  up  of  several  lines,  the  men  being 
deployed  at  five-yard  intervals.  The  first 
wave  advances  at  a  slow  walk  behind  a  cur- 
tain of  artillery  fire,  which  moves  forward  at 
the  rate  of  fifty  yards  a  minute,  the  first  line 
of  the  wave  keeping  a  hundred  to  a  hundred 
and  fifty  yards,  or,  in  other  words,  at  a  safe 
distance,  behind  this  protecting  fire-curtain. 
The  men  in  this  first  line  carry  no  rifles,  but 
consist  exclusively  of  grenadiers,  automatic 
riflemen,  and  their  ammunition  carriers,  every 
eighth  man  being  armed  with  the  new 
Chauchat  automatic  rifle,  a  recently  adopted 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         195 

weapon  which  weighs  only  nineteen  pounds, 
and  fires  at  the  rate  of  five  shots  a  second. 
Three  men,  carrying  between  them  one  thou- 
sand cartridges,  are  assigned  to  each  of  these 
guns,  of  which  there  are  now  more  than  fifty 
thousand  in  use  on  the  French  front.  The 
automatic  riflemen  fire  from  the  hip  as  they 
advance,  keeping  streams  of  bullets  playing 
on  the  enemy  just  as  firemen  keep  streams  of 
water  playing  on  a  fire.  In  the  second  line 
the  men  are  armed  with  rifles,  some  having 
bayonets  and  others  rifle  grenades,  the  latter 
being  specially  designed  to  break  up  counter- 
attacks against  captured  trenches.  A  third 
line  follows,  consisting  of  "trench  cleaners," 
though  it  must  not  be  inferred  from  their 
name  that  they  use  mops  and  brooms.  The 
native  African  troops  are  generally  used  for 
this  trench-cleaning  business,  and  they  do  it 
very  handily  with  grenades,  pistols  and  knives. 
When  the  first  wave  reaches  a  point  within 
two  hundred  to  three  hundred  yards  of  the 
enemy's  trenches,  a  halt  of  five  minutes  is 


ITALY    AT    WAR 

made  to  re-form  for  the  final  charge.  In  ad- 
dition to  the  advancing  curtain-fire  imme- 
diately preceding  the  troops,  a  second  screen 
of  fire  is  dropped  between  the  enemy's  first 
and  second  lines,  thus  preventing  the  men  in 
the  first  line  from  retreating  and  making  it 
equally  impossible  for  the  men  in  the  second 
line  to  get  reinforcements  or  supplies  to  their 
comrades  in  the  first.  Still  other  batteries  are 
engaged  in  keeping  down  the  fire  of  the  hos- 
tile artillery  while  the  big  guns,  mounted  on 
railway-trucks,  shell  the  enemy's  headquarters, 
his  supports,  and  his  lines  of  communication. 
The  attack  is  accompanied  by  and  largely 
directed  by  airplanes,  certain  of  which  are  as- 
signed to  regulating  the  artillery  fire,  while 
others  devote  themselves  exclusively  to  giving 
information  to  the  infantry,  with  whom  they 
communicate  by  means  of  dropping  from  one 
to  six  fire-balls.  As  the  aircraft  used  for  in- 
fantry and  artillery  regulation  are  compara- 
tively slow  machines,  they  are  protected  from 
the  attacks  of  enemy  aviators  by  a  screen  of 


JJ    £ 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         197 

small,  fast  battle-planes — the  destroyers  of 
the  air — which,  in  several  cases,  have  swooped 
low  enough  to  use  their  machine-guns  on  the 
German  trenches.  If  it  becomes  necessary  to 
give  to  the  infantry  some  special  information 
not  provided  for  by  the  prearranged  signals, 
the  aviator  will  volplane  down  to  within  a 
hundred  feet  above  the  infantry  and  drop  a 
written  message.  I  was  told  that  in  one  of 
the  successful  French  attacks  before  Verdun 
such  a  message  proved  extremely  useful  as 
by  means  of  it  the  troops  advancing  toward 
Douaumont,  which  was  then  held  by  the  Ger- 
mans, were  informed  that  the  enemy  was  in 
force  on  their  right,  but  that  there  was  practi- 
cally no  resistance  on  their  left.  Acting  in 
response  to  this  information  from  the  skies, 
they  swung  forward  on  this  flank,  and  took  the 
Germans  on  their  right  in  the  rear.  Just  as  a 
football  team  is  coached  from  the  side-lines, 
so  a  charge  is  nowadays  directed  from  the 
clouds. 

One  of  the  picturesque  developments  of  the 


198  ITALY   AT    WAR 

war  is  camouflage,  as  the  French  call  their 
system  of  disguising  or  concealing  batteries, 
airplane-sheds,  ammunition  stores,  and  the 
like,  from  observation  and  possible  destruc- 
tion by  enemy  aviators.  This  work  is  done  in 
the  main  by  a  corps  specially  recruited  for  the 
purpose  from  the  artists  and  scene  painters  of 
France.  It  is  considered  prudent,  for  ex- 
ample, to  conceal  the  location  of  a  certain 
"ammunition  dump,"  as  the  British  term  the 
vast  accumulations  of  shells,  cartridges,  and 
other  supplies  which  are  piled  up  at  the  rail- 
heads awaiting  transportation  to  the  front  by 
motor-lorry.  Over  the  great  mound  of  shells 
and  cartridge-boxes  is  spread  an  enormous 
piece  of  canvas,  often  larger  by  far  than  the 
''big  top"  of  a  four-ring  circus.  Then  the 
scene  painters  get  to  work  with  their  paints 
and  brushes  and  transform  that  expanse  of 
canvas  into  what,  when  viewed  from  the  sky, 
appears  to  be,  let  us  say,  a*  group  of  innocent 
farm-buildings.  The  next  day,  perhaps,  a 
German  airman,  circling  high  overhead,  peers 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         199 

earthward  through  his  glasses  and  descries,  far 
beneath  him,  a  cluster  of  red  rectangles — the 
tiled  roofs  of  cottages  or  stables,  he  supposes ; 
a  patch  of  green — evidently  a  bit  of  lawn;  a 
square  of  gray — the  cobble-paved  barnyard — 
and  pays  it  no  further  attention.  How  can  he 
know  that  what  he  takes  to  be  a  farmstead  is 
but  a  piece  of  painted  canvas  concealing  a 
small  mountain  of  potential  death? 

At  a  certain  very  important  point  on  the 
French  front  there  long  stood,  in  an  exposed 
and  commanding  position,  a  large  and  solitary 
tree,  or  rather  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  for  it  had 
been  shorn  of  its  branches  by  shell-fire.  A 
landmark  in  that  flat  and  devastated  region, 
every  detail  of  this  gaunt  sentinel  had  long 
since  become  familiar  to  the  keen  eyed  ob- 
servers in  the  German  trenches,  a  few  hundred 
yards  away.  Were  a  man  to  climb  to  its  top — 
and  live — he  would  be  able  to  command  a  com- 
prehensive view  of  the  surrounding  terrain. 
The  German  sharpshooters  saw  to  it,  however, 
that  no  one  climbed  it.  But  one  day  the  re- 


200  ITALY   AT    WAR 

sourceful  French  took  the  measurements  of 
that  tree  and  photographed  it.  These  meas- 
urements and  photographs  were  sent  to  Paris. 
A  few  weeks  later  there  arrived  at  the  French 
front  by  railway  an  imitation  tree,  made  of 
steel,  which  was  an  exact  duplicate  in  every 
respect,  even  to  the  splintered  branches  and 
the  bark,  of  the  original.  Under  cover  of 
darkness  the  real  tree  was  cut  down  and  the 
fake  tree  erected  in  its  place,  so  that,  when 
daylight  came,  there  was  no  change  in  the 
landscape  to  arouse  the  Germans'  suspicions. 
The  lone  tree-trunk  to  which  they  had  grown 
so  accustomed  still  reared  itself  skyward.  But 
the  "tree"  at  which  the  Germans  were  now 
looking  was  of  hollow  steel,  and  concealed  in 
its  interior  in  a  sort  of  conning-tower,  forty 
feet  above  the  ground,  a  French  observing 
officer,  field-glasses  at  his  eyes  and  a  telephone 
at  his  lips,  was  peering  through  a  cleverly  con- 
cealed peep-hole,  spotting  the  bursts  of  the 
French  shells  and  regulating  the  fire  of  the 
French  batteries. 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         201 

Nearly  three  years  have  passed  since  Ger- 
many tore  up  the  Scrap  of  Paper.  In  that 
time  the  French  army  has  been  hammered  and 
tempered  and  tested  until  it  has  become  the 
most  formidable  weapon  of  offense  and  defense 
in  existence.  I  am  convinced  that  in  organi- 
zation and  in  efficiency  it  is  now,  after  close 
on  three  years  of  experiments  and  object- 
lessons,  as  good,  if  not  better,  than  the  Ger- 
man— and  I  have  marched  with  both  and  have 
seen  both  in  action.  Its  light  artillery  is  ad- 
mittedly the  finest  in  the  world.  Though 
without  any  heavy  artillery  to  speak  of  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war,  it  has  in  this  respect 
already  equalled  if  not  surpassed  the  Germans. 
It  has  created  an  air  service  which,  in  efficiency 
and  in  number  of  machines,  is  unequalled. 
And  the  men,  themselves,  in  addition  to  their 
characteristic  elan,  possess  that  invaluable 
quality  which  the  German  soldier  lacks — ini- 
tiative. 

It  is  worthy  of  note,  in  this  connection,  that 
the  entire  reorganization  of  the  French  army 


202  ITALY    AT    WAR 

has  been  carried  out  virtually  without  any  ac- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  French  Congress,  and 
with  merely  the  formal  approval  of  the  Minis- 
ter of  War.  The  politicians  in  Paris  have, 
save  in  a  few  instances,  wisely  refrained  from 
interference,  and  have  left  military  problems 
to  be  decided  by  military  men.  But,  when  all 
is  said  and  done,  it  will  not  be  the  generals 
who  will  decide  this  war;  it  will  be  the  sol- 
diers. And  they  are  truly  wonderful  men, 
these  French  soldiers.  It  is  their  amazing 
calm,  their  total  freedom  from  nervousness  or 
apprehension,  that  impresses  one  the  most, 
and  the  secret  of  this  calm  is  confidence.  They 
are  as  confident  of  eventual  victory  as  they  are 
that  the  sun  will  rise  to-morrow  morning. 
They  are  fanatics,  and  France  is  their  Allah. 
You  can't  beat  men  like  that,  because  they 
never  know  when  they  are  beaten,  and  keep 
on  fighting. 

I  like  to  think  that  sometimes,  in  that  cold 
and  dismal  hour  before  the  dawn,  when  hope 
and  courage  are  at  their  lowest  ebb,  there  ap- 


"THEY    SHALL    NOT    PASS!"         203 

pears  among  the  worn  and  homesick  soldiers 
in  the  trenches  the  spirit  of  the  Great  Em- 
peror. Cheeringly  he  claps  each  man  upon 
the  shoulder. 

"Courage,  mon  brave,"  he  whispers.     "On 
les  aura!" 


VII 

"THAT    CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY" 

IN  watching  the  operations  on  the  British 
front  I  have  always  had  the  feeling  that  I 
was  witnessing  a  gigantic  engineering  under- 
taking. The  amazing  network  of  rails  which 
the  British  have  thrown  over  Northern  France, 
the  endless  strings  of  lorries,  the  warehouses 
bulging  with  supplies,  the  cranes  and  derricks, 
the  repair  depots,  the  machine-shops,  the  tens 
of  thousands  of  men  whose  only  weapons  are 
the  shovel  and  the  pick,  all  help  to  further  this 
impression.  And,  when  you  stop  to  think 
about  it,  it  is  an  engineering  undertaking. 
These  muddy  men  in  khaki  are  engaged  in 
checking  and  draining  off  an  unclean  flood 
which,  were  it  not  for  them,  would  soon  inun- 
date all  Europe.  And  so,  because  I  love 
things  that  are  clean  and  green  and  beautiful, 

204 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      205 

I  am  very  grateful  to  them  for  their  work  of 
sanitation. 

Because  most  of  the  despatches  from  the 
British  front  have  related  to  trenches  and 
tanks  and  howitzers  and  flying  men  and  raid- 
ing-parties,  the  attention  of  the  American 
people  has  been  diverted  from  the  remarkable 
and  tremendously  important  work  which  is  be- 
ing played  by  the  army  behind  the  army. 
Yet  one  of  the  most  splendid  achievements  of 
the  entire  war  is  the  creation  of  the  great  or- 
ganization which  links  the  British  trenches 
with  the  British  Isles.  In  failing  to  take  into 
account  the  Anglo-Saxon's  genius  for  rapid 
organization  and  improvization  in  emergen- 
cies, Germany  made  a  fatal  error.  She  had 
spent  upward  of  forty  years  in  perfecting  her 
war  machine;  the  British  have  built  a  better 
one  in  less  than  three.  I  said  in  "Vive  la 
France!"  if  I  remember  rightly,  that  the 
British  machine,  though  still  somewhat  wabbly 
and  creaky  in  its  joints,  was,  I  believed,  even- 
tually going  to  do  the  business  for  which  it 


206  ITALY    AT    WAR 

was  designed.  That  was  a  year  ago.  It  has 
already  shown  in  unmistakable  fashion  that  it 
can  do  the  business  and  do  it  well,  and  it  is, 
moreover,  just  entering  on  the  period  of  its 
greatest  efficiency. 

In  order  to  understand  the  workings  and 
the  ramifications  of  this  great  machine  in 
France  (its  work  in  England  is  another  story) 
you  must  begin  your  study  of  it  at  the  base 
camps  which  the  British  have  established  at 
Calais,  Havre,  Boulogne,  and  Rouen,  and  the 
training-schools  at  Etaples  and  elsewhere. 
Let  us  take,  for  example,  "Cinder  City,"  as 
the  base  camp  outside  Calais  is  called  because 
the  ground  on  which  it  stands  was  made  by 
dumping  ships'  cinders  into  a  marsh.  It  is  in 
many  respects  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
cities  in  the  world.  Its  population,  which 
fluctuates  with  the  tide  of  war,  averages,  I 
suppose,  about  one  hundred  thousand.  It  has 
many  miles  of  macadamized  streets  (as  sandy 
locations  are  chosen  for  these  base  camps,  mud 
is  almost  unknown)  lined  with  storehouses — 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      207 

one  of  them  the  largest  in  the  world — with 
stores,  with  machine-shops,  churches,  restau- 
rant, club-rooms,  libraries,  Y.  M.  C.  A.'s — 
there  are  over  a  thousand  of  them  in  the  war 
zone — Salvation  Army  barracks,  schools,  bath- 
ing establishments,  theatres,  motion-picture 
houses,  hospitals  for  men  and  hospitals  for 
horses,  and  thousands  upon  thousands  of  port- 
able wooden  huts.  This  city  is  lighted  by  elec- 
tricity, it  has  highly  efficient  police,  fire,  and 
street-cleaning  departments,  and  its  water  and 
sewage  systems  would  make  jealous  many 
municipalities  of  twice  its  size.  Among  its 
novel  features  is  a  school  for  army  bakers  and 
another  for  army  cooks,  for  good  food  has  al- 
most as  much  to  do  with  winning  battles  as 
good  ammunition.  But  most  significant  and 
important  of  all  are  the  "economy  shops" 
where  are  repaired  or  manufactured  practi- 
cally everything  required  by  an  army.  War, 
as  the  British  have  found,  is  a  staggeringly 
expensive  business,  and,  in  order  that  there 
may  be  a  minimum  of  wastage,  they  have  or- 


208  ITALY   AT    WAR 

ganized  a  Salvage  Corps  whose  business  it  is 
to  sort  the  litter  of  the  battle-fields  and  to 
send  everything  that  can  by  any  possibility  be 
re-utilized  to  the  "economy  shops"  at  the  rear. 
In  one  of  these  shops  I  saw  upward  of  a  thou- 
sand French  and  Belgian  women  renovating 
clothing  that  had  come  back  from  the  front, 
uniforms  which  arrived  as  bundles  of  muddy, 
bloody  rags  being  fumigated  and  cleaned  and 
mended  and  pressed  until  they  were  almost  as 
good  as  new.  Tens  of  thousands  of  boots  are 
sent  in  to  be  repaired ;  those  that  can  stand  the 
operation  are  soled  and  heeled  by  American 
machines  brought  over  for  the  purpose,  and 
even  the  others  are  not  wasted,  for  their  tops 
are  converted  into  boot-laces.  In  one  shop  the 
worn-out  tubes  and  springs  of  guns  are  re- 
placed with  new  ones.  (Did  you  know  that 
during  an  intense  bombardment  the  springs  of 
the  guns  will  last  only  two  days?)  In  another 
fragments  of  valuable  metal  sent  in  from  the 
battle-field  are  melted  and  reused.  (Perhaps 
you  were  not  aware  that  a  5-inch  shell  carries 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      209 

a  copper  band  weighing  a  pound  and  a  quar- 
ter. The  weight  of  copper  shot  off  in  this  way 
during  a  single  brief  bombardment  was  four 
hundred  tons.)  The  millions  of  empty  shells 
which  litter  the  ground  behind  the  batteries 
are  cleaned  and  classified  and  shipped  over  to 
England  to  be  reloaded.  Steel  rails  which  the 
retreating  Germans  believed  they  had  made 
quite  useless  are  here  straightened  out  and 
used  over  again.  Shattered  rifles,  bits  of  har- 
ness, haversacks,  machine-gun  belts,  trench 
helmets,  sand-bags,  barbed  wire — nothing  es- 
capes the  Salvage  Corps.  They  even  collect 
and  send  in  old  rags,  which  are  sold  for  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  ton.  Let  us  talk 
less  hereafter  of  German  efficiency. 

Even  more  significant  than  the  base  camps 
of  the  efficiency  and  painstaking  thoroughness 
of  the  British  war-machine  are  the  training 
camps  scattered  behind  the  lines.  Typical  of 
these  is  the  great  camp  at  Etaples,  on  the 
French  coast,  where  150,000  men  can  be 
trained  at  a  time.  These  are  not  schools  for 


210  ITALY   AT    WAR 

raw  recruits,  mind  you — that  work  is  done  in 
England — but  "finishing  schools,"  as  it  were, 
where  men  who  are  supposed  to  have  already 
learned  the  business  of  war  are  given  final 
examinations  in  the  various  subjects  in  which 
they  have  received  instruction  before  being 
sent  up  to  the  front.  And  the  soldier  who  is  un- 
able to  pass  these  final  tests  does  not  go  to  the 
front  until  he  can.     The  camp  at  Etaples, 
which  is  built  on  a  stretch  of  rolling  sand  be- 
side the  sea,  is  five  miles  long  and  a  mile  wide, 
and  on  every  acre  of  it  there  are  squads  of 
soldiers  drilling,  drilling,  drilling.      Here  a 
gymnastic   instructor   from    Sandhurst,   lithe 
and  active  as  a  panther,  is  teaching  a  class  of 
sergeants  drawn  from  many  regiments  how  to 
become  instructors  themselves.    His  language 
would  have  amazed  and  delighted  Kipling's 
Ortheris  and  Mulvaney;  I  could  have  listened 
to  him  all  day.    Over  there  a  platoon  of  High- 
landers are  practising  the  taking  of  German 
trenches.    At  the  blast  of  a  whistle  they  clam- 
ber out  of  a  length  of  trench  built  for  the  pur- 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      211 

pose,  and,  with  shrill  Gaelic  yells,  go  swarm- 
ing across  a  stretch  of  broken  ground,  through 
a  tangle  of  twisted  wire,  and  over  the  top  of 
the  German  parapet,  whereupon  a  row  of 
German  soldiers,  stuffed  with  straw  and  auto- 
matically controlled,  spring  up  to  meet  them. 
If  a  man  fails  to  bury  his  bayonet  in  the  "Ger- 
man" who  opposes  him,  he  is  sent  back  to  the 
awkward  squad  and  spends  a  few  days  lung- 
ing at  a  dummy  swung  from  a  beam. 

Crater  fighting  is  taught  in  an  ingenious 
reproduction  of  a  crater,  by  an  officer  who  has 
had  much  experience  with  the  real  thing  and 
who  explains  to  his  pupils,  whose  knowledge 
of  craters  has  been  gained  from  the  pictures 
in  the  illustrated  weeklies,  how  to  capture, 
fortify,  and  hold  such  a  position.  In  order  to 
give  the  men  confidence  when  the  order  "Put 
on  gas-masks!"  is  passed  down  the  line,  they 
are  sent  into  a  real  dugout  filled  with  real  gas 
and  the  entrances  closed  behind  them.  As 
soon  as  they  find  that  the  masks  are  a  sure 
protection,  their  nervousness  disappears.  In 


212  ITALY    AT    WAR 

order  to  accustom  them  to  lachrymal  shells, 
they  are  marched,  this  time  without  masks, 
through  an  underground  chamber  which  reeks 
with  the  tear-producing  gas — and  they  are  a 
very  weepy,  red-eyed  lot  of  men  who  emerge. 
They  are  instructed  in  trench-digging,  in  the 
construction  of  wire  entanglements,  "knife- 
rests,"  chevaux-de-frise,  and  every  other  form 
of  obstruction,  in  revetting,  in  the  making  of 
fascines  and  gabions,  in  sapping  and  mining, 
in  the  most  approved  methods  of  dugout  con- 
struction, in  trench  sanitation,  in  the  location 
of  listening-posts  and  how  to  conceal  them; 
they  are  shown  how  to  cut  wire,  they  are 
drilled  in  trench  raiding  and  in  the  most  ef- 
fective methods  of  "trench  cleaning."  The 
practical  work  is  supplemented  by  lectures  on 
innumerable  subjects.  As  it  is  extremely  diffi- 
cult for  an  officer  to  make  his  explanations 
heard  by  a  battalion  of  men  assembled  in  the 
open,  a  series  of  small  amphitheatres  have 
been  excavated  from  the  sand-dunes,  the  tiers 
of  seats  being  built  up  of  petrol  tins  filled  with 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      213 

sand.  In  one  of  these  improvised  amphi- 
theatres I  saw  an  officer  illustrating  the  proper 
method  of  using  the  gas-mask  to  a  class  of  600 
men. 

On  these  imitation  battle-fields,  any  one  of 
which  is  larger  than  the  field  of  Waterloo, 
the  men  are  instructed  in  the  gentle  art  of 
bombing,  first  with  "dubs,"  which  do  not  ex- 
plode at  all,  then  with  toy-grenades  which  go 
off  harmlessly  with  a  noise  like  a  small  fire- 
cracker, and  finally,  when  they  have  become 
sufficiently  expert,  with  the  real  Mills  bomb, 
which  scatters  destruction  in  a  burst  of  noise 
and  flame.  To  attain  accuracy  and  distance  in 
throwing  these  destructive  little  ovals  is  by  no 
means  as  easy  as  it  sounds.  The  bombing- 
school  at  Etaples  will  not  soon  forget  the 
American  baseball  player  who  threw  a  bomb 
seventy  yards.  The  hand-grenade  is  the  un- 
safest  and  most  treacherous  of  all  weapons 
and  even  in  practice  accidents  and  near-acci- 
dents frequently  occur.  The  Mills  bomb, 
which  has  a  scored  surface  to  prevent  slipping, 


214  ITALY    AT    WAR 

is  about  the  shape  and  size  of  a  large  lemon. 
Protruding  from  one  end  is  the  small  metal 
ring  of  the  firing-pin.  Three  seconds  after 
this  is  pulled  out  the  bomb  explodes — and  the 
farther  the  thrower  can  remove  himself  from 
the  bomb  in  that  time  the  better.  Now,  in  line 
with  the  policy  of  strict  economy  which  has 
been  adopted  by  the  British  military  authori- 
ties, the  men  receiving  instruction  at  the  bomb- 
ing-schools were  told  not  to  throw  away  the 
firing-pins,  but  to  put  them  in  their  pockets, 
to  be  turned  in  and  used  over  again.  The  day 
after  this  order  went  into  effect  a  company  of 
newly  arrived  recruits  were  being  put  through 
their  bomb-throwing  tests.  Man  after  man 
walked  up  to  the  protecting  earthwork,  jerked 
loose  the  firing-pin,  hurled  the  bomb,  and  put 
the  firing-pin  in  his  pocket.  At  last  it  came 
the  turn  of  a  youngster  who  was  obviously 
overcome  with  stage  fright.  To  the  horror  of 
his  comrades,  he  threw  the  firing-pin  and  put 
the  live  bomb  in  his  pocket!  In  three  seconds 
that  bomb  was  due  to  explode,  but  the  in- 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY'*     215, 

structor,  who  had  seen  what  had  happened, 
made  a  flying  leap  to  the  befuddled  man, 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  drew  out  the 
bomb,  and  hurled  it.  It  exploded  in  the  air. 
Near  Etaples,  at  Paris  Plage,  is  the  largest 
of  the  British  machine-gun  schools.  Here  the 
men  are  taught  the  operation  not  only  of  all 
the  models  of  machine-guns  used  by  the  Allies, 
but  they  are  also  shown  how  to  handle  any 
which  they  may  capture  from  the  Germans. 
Set  up  on  the  beach  were  a  dozen  different 
models,  beginning  with  a  wonderfully  inge- 
nious weapon,  as  beautifully  constructed  as  a 
watch,  which  had  just  been  brought  in  from 
a  captured  German  airplane  and  of  which  the 
British  officers  were  loud  in  their  admiration, 
and  ending  with  the  little  twenty-five-pound 
gun  invented  by  Colonel  Lewis,  an  American. 
Standing  on  the  sands,  a  few  hundred  yards 
away,  were  half  a  dozen  targets  of  the  size  and 
outline  of  German  soldiers.  "Try  'em  out," 
suggested  the  officer  in  command  of  the  school. 
So  I  seated  myself  behind  the  German  gun, 


216  ITALY    AT    WAR 

looked  into  a  ground-glass  finder  like  that  on  a 
newspaper  photographer's  camera,  swung  the 
barrel  of  the  weapon  until  the  intersection  of 
the  scarlet  cross-hairs  covered  the  mirrored  re- 
flection of  the  distant  figures,  and  pressed  to- 
gether a  pair  of  handles.  There  was  a  noise 
such  as  a  small  hoy  makes  when  he  draws  a 
stick  along  the  palings  of  a  picket  fence,  a 
series  of  flame- jets  leaped  from  the  muzzle  of 
the  gun,  and  the  targets  disappeared.  "You'd 
have  broken  up  that  charge,"  commented  the 
officer  approvingly.  "Try  the  others."  So  I 
tried  them  all — Maxim,  Hotchkiss,  Colt,  St. 
Etienne,  Lewis — in  turn. 

"Which  do  you  consider  the  best  gun?"  I 
asked. 

"That  one,"  and  he  pointed  to  Colonel 
Lewis's  invention.  "It  is  the  lightest,  sim- 
plest, strongest,  and  most  effective  machine- 
gun  made.  It  weighs  only  twenty-five  and  a 
half  pounds  and  a  clip  of  forty-seven  rounds 
can  be  fired  in  four  seconds.  At  present  we 
have  four  to  each  company — though  the  num- 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      217 

ber  will  probably  be  increased  shortly — and 
they  are  so  easy  to  handle  that  in  an  attack 
they  go  over  with  the  second  wave." 

"But  our  Ordnance  Department  claims  that 
they  cannot  fire  two  thousand  rounds  without 
heating  and  jamming,"  I  remarked. 

"Who  ever  heard  of  a  machine-gun  being 
called  upon  to  fire  two  thousand  rounds  under 
actual  service  conditions?"  he  asked  scornfully. 
"On  the  front  we  rarely  exceed  two  hundred 
or  three  hundred  rounds;  five  hundred  never. 
Long  before  that  number  can  be  fired  the  at- 
tack is  broken  up  or  the  gun  is  captured." 

"In  any  event,"  said  I,  "the  American  War 
Department,  to  whom  Colonel  Lewis  offered 
his  patents,  asserts  that  the  gun  did  not  make 
good  on  the  proving-grounds  of  Flanders." 

"Well,"  was  the  dry  response,  "it  has  made 
good  on  the  proving-grounds  of  Flanders. 

The  pretty  little  casino  at  Paris  Plage, 
where,  in  the  days  before  the  war,  the  mem- 
bers of  the  summer  colony  used  to  dance  or 
play  at  petits  chevaux,  has  been  converted 


•218  ITALY    AT    WAR 

into  a  lecture-hall  for  machine-gunners.  Cov- 
ering the  walls  are  charts  and  cleverly  painted 
pictures  which  illustrate  at  a  glance  the  im- 
portant roles  played  by  machine-guns  in  cer- 
tain actions.  They  reminded  me  of  those 
charts  which  they  use  in  Sunday-schools  to  ex- 
plain the  flight  of  the  Israelites  out  of  Egypt 
or  their  wanderings  in  the  Wilderness.  Seated 
on  the  wooden  benches,  which  have  been 
brought  in  from  a  school  near  by,  are  a  score 
*or  more  of  sun-reddened  young  Englishmen 
in  khaki. 

"Here,"  says  the  alert  young  officer  who  is 
acting  as  instructor,  unrolling  a  chart,  "is  a 
picture  of  an  action  in  a  little  village  south  of 
Mons.  A  company  of  our  fellows  were  hold- 
ing the  village.  There  are,  you  see,  only  two 
roads  by  which  the  Germans  could  advance, 
so  the  captain  who  Was  in  command  placed 
machine-guns  so  as  to  command  each  of  them. 
About  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  Ger- 
mans appeared  on  this  lower  road.  Now,  the 
Sergeant  in  charge  of  that  machine-gun,  in- 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      219 

stead  of  taking  cover  behind  this  hedge  with 
this  brook  in  front  of  him,  had  concealed  his 
gun  in  this  clump  of  trees,  which,  as  you  see, 
are  out  in  the  middle  of  a  field.  No  sooner 
had  he  opened  upon  the  Boches,  therefore, 
than  a  detachment  of  Uhlans  galloped  around 
and  cut  him  off  from  the  town.  Then  it  was 
all  over  but  the  shouting.  The  Germans  got 
into  the  town  and  our  fellows  got  it  in  the 
neck.  And  all  because  that  fool  sergeant 
didn't  use  common  sense  in  choosing  a  position 
for  his  gun.  They  marked  his  grave  with  a 
nice  little  white  cross.  And  that's  what  you 
Loys  will  get  if  you  don't  profit  by  these  things 
I'm  telling  you." 

There  you  have  an  example  of  the  thorough 
preparation  which  is  necessary  to  wage  mod- 
ern war  successfully.  It  is  not  merely  a  mat- 
ter of  a  man  being  taught  how  to  operate  a 
machine-gun;  if  he  is  to  be  of  the  greatest 
value  he  must  be  taught  how  to  place  that  gun 
where  it  is  going  to  do  the  maximum  damage 
to  the  enemy.  And,  by  means  of  the  graphic 


220  ITALY    AT    WAR 

Sunday-school  charts,  and  the  still  more 
graphic  sentences  of  the  officer-teacher,  those 
lessons  are  so  driven  home  that  the  men  will 
never  forget  them. 

Virtually  everything  between  England  and 
the  fighting  front  is  under  the  control  of  the 
L.  C. — Lines  of  Communication.  This  vast 
organization,  one  of  the  most  wide-spread  and 
complex  in  the  world,  represents  six  per  cent 
of  all  the  British  forces  in  France.  Of  the 
countless  forms  of  activity  which  it  comprises, 
the  railways  are  by  far  the  most  important. 
Did  you  know  that  the  British  have  laid  and 
are  operating  more  than  a  thousand  miles  of 
new  railway  in  France?  As  the  existing  rail- 
ways were  wholly  inadequate  for  the  transpor- 
tation of  the  millions  of  fighting  men,  with  the 
stupendous  quantities  of  food  and  equipment, 
new  networks  of  steel  had  to  be  laid,  single 
tracks  had  to  be  converted  into  double  ones, 
mammoth  railway-yards,  sidings,  and  freight- 
houses  had  to  be  built,  thousands  of  locomo- 
tives, carriages,  and  trucks  provided.  This 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      221 

work  was  done  by  the  Railway  Companies  of 
the  Royal  Engineers,  behind  which  was  the 
Railway  Reserve,  whose  members,  before  the 
war,  were  employed  by  the  great  English  rail- 
way systems.  Wearing  the  blue-and-white 
brassard  of  the  L.  C.  are  whole  battalions  of 
engineers  and  firemen,  bridge-builders,  signal- 
men, freight  handlers,  clerks,  and  navvies,  all 
of  them  experts  at  their  particular  jobs.  It  is 
impossible  to  overrate  the  services  which  these 
railway  men  have  performed.  They  build  and 
staff  the  new  lines  which  are  constantly  being 
constructed;  they  repair  destroyed  sections  of 
track,  restore  blown-up  bridges ;  in  short,  keep 
in  order  the  arteries  through  which  courses  the 
life-blood  of  the  army.  They  are  the  real  or- 
ganizers of  victory.  Without  them  the  men  in 
the  trenches  could  not  fight  a  day.  You  can- 
not travel  for  a  mile  along  the  British  front 
without  seeing  an  example  of  their  rapid  track- 
laying.  They  have  had  to  forget  all  the  old- 
fashioned  British  notions  about  track  perma- 
nency, however,  for  their  business  is  to  get  the 


222  ITALY    AT    WAR 

trains  over  the  rails  with  the  least  possible  de- 
lay; nothing  else  matters.  Engaged  in  this 
work  are  men  who  have  learned  the  lessons  of 
rough-and-ready  construction  on  the  Mexican 
Central,  on  the  Egyptian  State  Railways,  on 
the  Beira  and  Mashonaland,  and  on  the  Cana- 
dian Pacific,  and  the  rate  at  which  they  cause 
the  twin  lines  of  steel  to  grow  before  one's  eyes 
would  have  aroused  the  admiration  of  such 
railroad  pioneers  as  Stanford  and  Hill  and 
Harriman. 

The  engines  for  use  on  these  military  rail- 
ways are  sent  across  the  Channel  with  fires 
already  built  and  banked,  water  in  the  boilers, 
and  coal  in  the  tenders.  They  come  in  ships 
specially  constructed  so  that  the  whole  top 
deck  can  be  lifted  off.  Giant  cranes  reach 
down  into  the  hold  and  pick  the  engines  up 
and  set  them  down  on  the  tracks  on  the  quays, 
the  crews  climb  aboard  and  shake  down  the 
fires,  a  harassed-looking  man,  known  as  the 
M.  L.  O.  (Military  Landing  Officer)  turns 
*hem  over  to  the  Railway  Transport  Officer, 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      223 

who  is  a  very  important  personage  indeed,  and 
he  in  turn  hands  the  engineers  their  orders, 
and,  half  an  hour  after  they  have  been  landed 
on  the  soil  of  France,  the  engines  go  puffing 
off  to  take  their  places  in  the  war  machine. 

It  is  not  the  numbers  of  men  to  be  trans- 
ported to  the  front,  nor  even  the  astounding 
quantities  of  supplies  required  to  feed  those 
men,  which  have  been  the  primary  cause  for 
crisscrossing  all  Northern  France  with  this 
latticework  of  steel.  It  is  the  unappeasable 
appetite  of  the  guns.  "This  is  a  cannon  war," 
Field-Marshal  von  Mackensen  told  an  inter- 
viewer. "The  side  that  burns  up  the  most 
ammunition  is  bound  to  gain  ground."  And 
on  that  assumption  the  British  are  proceeding. 
England's  response  to  the  insistent  cry  of 
"Shells,  shells,  shells!"  has  been  one  of  the 
wonders  of  the  war.  By  January  1,  1917,  the 
shell  increase  for  howitzers  was  twenty-seven 
times  greater  than  in  1914-15;  in  mid-caliber 
shells  the  increase  was  thirty- four  times;  and 
in  all  the  "heavies"  ninety-four  times.  And 


224  ITALY    AT    WAR 

the  shell  output  keeps  a-growing  and  a-grow- 
ing.  Yet  what  avail  the  four  thousand  flam- 
ing forges  which  have  made  all  this  possible, 
what  avails  the  British  sea-power  which  has 
landed  these  amazing  quantities  of  shells  in 
France,  and  2,000,000  of  men  along  with  them, 
if  the  shells  cannot  be  delivered  to  the  guns? 
And  that  is  where  the  great  new  systems  of 
railway  have  come  in. 

"Be  lavish  with  your  ammunition,"  Napo- 
leon urged  upon  his  battery  commanders. 
"Fire  incessantly."  And  it  is  that  maxim 
which  the  artillerists  of  all  the  nations  at  war 
are  following  to-day.  The  expenditure  of 
shells  staggers  the  imagination.  In  a  single 
day,  near  Arras,  the  French  let  loose  upon  the 
German  lines  $1,625,000  worth  of  projectiles, 
or  almost  as  great  a  quantity  as  Germany  used 
in  the  entire  war  of  1870-71.  Five  million 
shells  of  all  calibers  were  fired  by  the  British 
gunners  during  the  first  four  weeks  of  the 
offensive  on  the  Somme.  In  one  week's  at- 
tack north  of  Verdun  the  Germans  fired 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      225 

2,400,000  field-gun  shells  and  600,000  larger 
ones.  To  transport  this  mountain  of  potential 
destruction  required  240  trains,  each  carrying 
200  tons  of  projectiles. 

During  the  "Big  Push"  on  the  Somme, 
there  were  frequently  eighty  guns  on  a  front 
of  two  hundred  yards.  The  batteries  would 
fire  a  round  per  gun  per  minute  for  days  on 
end,  the  gunners  working  in  shifts,  two  hours 
on  and  two  hours  off.  So  thickly  did  the  shells 
fall  upon  the  German  lines  that  the  British 
observing  officers  were  frequently  unable  to 
spot  their  own  bursts.  A  field-battery  of 
eighteen-pounders  firing  at  this  rate  will  blaze 
away  anywhere  from  twelve  to  twenty  tons  of 
ammunition  a  day.  As  guns  firing  with  such 
rapidity  wear  out  their  tubes  and  their  springs 
in  a  few  days,  it  is  necessary  to  rush  entire 
batteries  to  the  repair-shops  at  the  rear.  And 
that  provides  another  burden  for  the  railways. 

In  addition  to  the  railways  of  standard 
gauge,  the  British  have  laid  down  an  astonish- 
ing trackage  of  narrow-gauge,  Decauville,  and 


226  ITALY   AT   WAR 

monorail  systems.  These  portable  and  easily 
laid  field  railways  twist  and  turn  and  coil  like 
snakes  among  the  gun  positions,  the  miniature 
engines,  with  their  strings  of  toy  cars,  puff- 
ing their  way  into  the  heart  of  the  artillery 
zone,  where  the  ammunition  is  unloaded, 
sorted,  and  classified  in  calibers,  and  then  art- 
fully hidden  from  the  prying  eyes  of  enemy 
aviators  and  from  their  bombs.  These  great 
collections  of  gun-food  the  English  inelegantly 
term  "ammunition  dumps."  Nor  do  the  trains 
that  come  up  loaded  go  back  empty,  for  upon 
the  miniature  trucks  are  loaded  the  combings 
of  the  battle-field  to  be  shipped  back  to  the 
"economy  shops"  in  the  rear.  Where  possible, 
wounded  men  are  sent  back  to  the  hospitals  in 
like  fashion,  some  of  the  railways  having 
trucks  specially  constructed  for  this  purpose. 
Where  the  light  railways  stop  the  monorail 
systems  begin,  food,  cartridges,  and  mail  be- 
ing sent  right  up  into  the  forward  trenches  in 
small  cars  or  baskets  suspended  from  a  single 
overhead  rail  and  pushed  by  hand.  They  look 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      227 

not  unlike  the  old-fashioned  cash-and-parcel 
carriers  which  were  used  in  American  depart- 
ment stores  before  the  present  system  of 
pneumatic  tubes  came  in. 

Comprising  another  branch  of  the  L.  C/s 
multifarious  activities  are  the  field  telephones, 
whose  lines  of  black-and-white  poles  run  out 
across  the  landscape  in  every  direction.  And 
it  is  no  haphazard  and  hastily  improvised  sys- 
tem either,  but  as  good  in  every  respect  as  you 
will  find  in  American  cities.  It  has  to  be  good. 
Too  much  depends  upon  it.  An  indistinct 
message  might  cost  a  thousand  lives;  a  break- 
down in  the  system  might  mean  a  great  mili- 
tary disaster.  Every  officer  of  importance  in 
the  British  zone  has  a  telephone  at  hand,  and 
as  the  armies  advance  the  telephones  go  with 
them,  the  wires  and  portable  instruments  be- 
ing transported  by  the  motor-cycle  despatch 
riders  of  the  Army  Signal  Corps,  so  that  fre- 
quently within  thirty  minutes  after  a  battalion 
has  captured  a  German  position  its  com- 
mander will  be  in  telephonic  communication 


228  ITALY    AT    WAR 

with  Advanced  G.  H.  Q.  The  speed  with 
which  the  connections  are  made  would  be  re- 
markable even  in  New  York.  I  have  seen  an 
officer  at  General  Headquarters  establish  com- 
munication with  the  Provost  Marshal's  office 
in  Paris  in  three  minutes,  and  with  the  War 
Office  in  London  in  ten. 

I  might  mention  in  passing  that  nowadays 
the  General  Headquarters  of  an  army  (G. 
H.  Q.  it  is  always  called  on  the  British  front, 
Grand  Quar tier- General  on  the  French,  and 
Comando  Supremo  on  the  Italian)  is  usually 
eight,  ten,  fifteen,  sometimes  twenty-five  miles 
behind  the  firing-line.  Most  of  the  command- 
ing generals  have,  however,  advanced  head- 
quarters, considerably  nearer  the  front,  where 
they  usually  remain  during  important  actions. 
It  is  said  that  at  Waterloo  Napoleon  and 
Wellington  watched  each  other  through  their 
telescopes.  Compare  this  with  the  battle  for 
Verdun,  where  the  headquarters  of  the  Crown 
Prince  must  have  been  at  least  thirty  miles 
from  those  of  General  Nivelle  at  Souilly. 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      229 

If  one  of  the  greatest  triumphs  of  the  war  is 
the  creation  of  the  transport  system,  another 
is  the  maintenance,  often  under  heavy  shell- 
fire,  of  the  highways  on  which  that  transport 
moves.  No  one  can  imagine  what  the  traffic 
from  the  Channel  up  to  the  British  front  is 
like;  one  must  see  it  to  believe  it.  The  roads 
are  as  crowded  with  traffic  as  is  Fifth  Avenue 
on  a  sunny  afternoon.  Every  fifty  yards  or 
so  are  military  police,  mounted  and  afoot,  who 
control  the  traffic  with  small  red  flags  as  do 
the  New  York  bluecoats  with  their  stop-and- 
go  signs.  So  incredibly  dense  was  the  volume 
of  traffic  during  the  Somme  offensive  that  it  is 
little  exaggeration  to  say  that  an  active  man 
could  have  started  immediately  back  of  the 
British  front  and  could  have  made  his  way  to 
Albert,  twenty  miles  distant,  if  not,  indeed,  to 
the  English  Channel,  by  jumping  from  lorry 
to  wagon,  from  wagon  to  ambulance,  from  am- 
bulance to  motor-bus.  In  going  from  Albert 
up  to  the  front  I  passed  hundreds,  yes,  thou- 
sands of  lumbering  motor-lorries  bearing  every 


230  ITALY    AT    WAR 

kind  of  supply  from  barbed  wire  to  marma- 
lade. In  order  to  avoid  confusion,  the  lorries 
belonging  to  the  ammunition-train  have 
painted  on  their  sides  a  shell,  while  those  com- 
prising the  supply  column  are  designated  by  a 
four-leaf  clover.  A  whole  series  of  other  dis- 
tinctive emblems,  such  as  stars,  crescents,  pyra- 
mids, Maltese  crosses,  unicorns,  make  it  pos- 
sible to  tell  at  a  glance  to  what  division  or 
unit  a  vehicle  belongs.  I  passed  six-mule 
teams  from  Missouri  and  Mississippi  hauling 
wagons  made  in  South  Bend,  Indiana,  which 
were  piled  high  with  sides  of  Australian  beef 
and  loaves  of  French-made  bread.  Converted 
motor-buses,  which  had  once  borne  the  signs 
Bank-Holborn-Marble  Arch,  rumbled  past 
with  their  loads  of  boisterous  men  in  khaki 
bound  for  the  trenches  or  bringing  back  other 
loads  of  tired  men  clad  apparently  in  nothing 
save  mud.  Endless  strings  of  ambulances 
went  rocking  and  rolling  by  and  some  of  them 
were  dripping  crimson.  Tractors,  big  as  ele- 
phants, panted  and  grunted  on  their  way, 


fi    8 


>  -a 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      231 

hauling  long  trains  of  wagons  laden  with  tins 
of  cocoa  or  condensed  milk,  with  kegs  of  nails, 
with  lumber,  with  fodder.  Occasionally  a 
gray  staff-car  like  our  own  threaded  its  tor- 
tuous and  halting  way  through  the  terrific 
press  of  traffic.  We  passed  one  that  had 
broken  down.  The  two  officers  who  were  its 
occupants  were  seated  on  the  muddy  bank  be- 
side the  road  smoking  cigarettes  while  the 
driver  was  endeavoring  to  get  his  motor 
started  again.  One  of  them,  on  the  shoulder- 
straps  of  whose  "British  warm"  were  the  stars 
of  a  captain,  was  a  slender,  fair-haired,  rather 
delicate-looking  youngster  in  the  early  twen- 
ties. It  was  the  Prince  of  Wales,  but,  so  far 
as  receiving  any  attention  from  the  hurrying 
throng  was  concerned,  he  might  as  well  have 
been  an  unknown  subaltern.  For  it  is  an  ex- 
tremely democratic  army,  and  royalty  receives 
from  it  scant  consideration;  Lloyd  George  is 
of  far  more  importance  than  King  George  to 
the  man  in  khaki. 

Almost  since  the  beginning  of  the  war  this 


232  ITALY    AT   WAR 

particular  stretch  of  road  on  which  I  was 
travelling  had  been  shelled  persistently,  as  was 
shown  by  the  splintered  tree-stumps  which 
lined  the  road  and  the  shell-craters  which 
pitted  the  fields  on  either  side.  To  keep  this 
road  passable  under  such  wear  and  tear  as  it 
had  been  subjected  to  for  many  months  would 
have  been  a  remarkable  accomplishment  under 
any  circumstances;  to  keep  it  open  under 
heavy  shell-fire  is  a  performance  for  which  the 
labor  battalions  deserve  the  highest  praise. 
Wearing  their  steel  helmets,  the  road-making 
gangs  have  kept  at  work,  night  and  day,  along 
its  entire  length,  exposed  to  much  of  the  dan- 
ger of  the  men  in  the  trenches,  and  having 
none  of  their  protection.  There  has  been  no 
time  to  obtain  ordinary  road  metal,  so  they 
have  filled  up  the  holes  with  bricks  taken  from 
the  ruined  villages  which  dot  the  landscape, 
rolling  them  level  when  they  get  the  chance. 
For  nothing  must  be  permitted  to  interfere 
with  that  flow  of  traffic ;  on  it  depends  the  food 
for  the  men  and  for  the  guns.  An  hour's 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      233 

blockade  on  that  road  would  prove  infinitely 
more  serious  than  would  a  freight  wreck  which 
blocked  all  four  tracks  of  the  New  York  Cen- 
tral. No  wonder  that  Lord  Derby,  in  ad- 
dressing his  Pioneer  Battalions  in  Lancashire, 
remarked:  "In  this  war  the  pick  and  the  shovel 
are  as  important  as  the  rifle." 

While  I  was  standing  on  the  summit  of  a 
little  eminence  beyond  Fricourt,  looking  down 
on  that  amazing  scene  of  industry,  a  big  Ger- 
man shell  burst  squarely  on  the  road.  It 
wrecked  a  motor-lorry,  it  killed  several  horses 
and  half  a  dozen  men,  but,  most  serious  of  all, 
it  blew  in  the  road  a  hole  as  large  as  a  cottage 
cellar.  The  river  of  traffic  may  have  halted 
for  two  or  three  minutes,  certainly  not  more. 
In  scarcely  more  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it, 
the  nearest  military  police  were  on  the  spot. 
The  stream  of  vehicles  bound  for  the  front  was 
swung  out  into  the  fields  at  the  right,  the 
stream  headed  for  the  rear  was  diverted  into 
the  fields  at  the  left.  Within  five  minutes  a 
hundred  men  were  at  work  with  pick  and 


234  ITALY    AT    WAR 

shovel  filling  up  the  hole  with  material  piled 
at  frequent  intervals  along  the  road  for  just 
that  purpose.  Within  twenty  minutes  a 
steam-roller  had  arrived  —  goodness  knows 
where  it  had  materialized  from! — and  was  at 
work  rolling  the  road  into  hardness.  Within 
thirty  minutes  after  the  shell  burst  the  hole 
which  it  made  no  longer  existed  and  the  lorries, 
the  tractors,  the  wagons,  the  guns,  the  buses, 
the  ambulances  were  rolling  on  their  way. 
Then  they  bore  away  the  six  tarpaulin-covered 
forms  beside  the  road  and  buried  them. 

The  weather  is  a  vital  factor  in  war.  The 
heavy  rains  of  a  French  winter  quickly  trans- 
form the  ground,  already  churned  up  by 
months  of  shell-fire,  into  a  slimy,  glutinous 
swamp,  incredibly  tenacious  and  unbelievably 
deep.  Through  this  vast  stretch  of  mud,  pitted 
everywhere  with  shell-holes  filled  with  stag- 
nant water,  the  infantry  has  to  make  its  way 
and  the  guns  have  to  be  moved  forward  to 
support  the  infantry.  On  one  stretch  of  road, 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      235 

only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long,  on  the  Somme, 
twelve  horses  sank  so  deeply  in  the  mud  that 
it  was  impossible  to  extricate  them  and  they 
had  to  be  shot.  No  wonder  that  the  soldiers, 
going  up  to  the  trenches,  prefer  to  leave  their 
overcoats  and  blankets  behind  and  face  the 
misery  of  wet  and  cold  rather  than  be  bur- 
dened with  the  additional  weight  while  strug- 
gling through  the  molasses-like  mire.  The 
only  thing  that  they  take  up  to  the  trenches 
which  could  by  any  stretch  of  the  imagination 
be  described  as  a  comfort  is  whale-oil,  carried 
in  great  jars,  with  which  they  rub  their  feet 
several  times  daily  in  order  to  prevent  "trench 
feet."  If  you  want  to  get  a  real  idea  of  what 
the  British  infantryman  has  to  endure  during 
at  least  six  months  of  the  year,  I  would  sug- 
gest that  you  strap  on  a  pack-basket  with  a 
load  of  forty-two  pounds,  which  is  the  weight 
of  the  British  field  equipment,  tramp  for  ten 
hours  through  a  ploughed  field  after  a  heavy 
rain,  jump  in  a  canal,  and,  without  removing 


236  ITALY    AT    WAR 

your  clothes  or  boots,  spend  the  night  on  a 
manure-pile  in  a  barnyard.  Then  you  will 
understand  why  soldiers  become  so  heedless  of 
gas,  bullets,  and  shells.  But  with  it  all  the 
British  soldier  remains  incorrigibly  cheerful. 
He  is  a  born  optimist  and  he  shows  it  in  his 
songs.  Away  back  in  the  early  months  of  the 
war  he  went  into  action  to  the  lilt  of  "Tip- 
perary"  The  gloom  and  depression  of  that 
first  terrible  winter  induced  in  him  a  more 
serious  mood,  to  which  he  gave  vent  in  "On- 
ward, Christian  Soldiers."  But  now  he  feels 
that  victory,  though  still  far  off,  is  certain, 
and  he  puts  his  confidence  into  words:  "Pack 
Up  Your  Troubles  in  Your  Old  Kit  Bag  and 
Smile,  Smile,  Smile"  "Keep  the  Home  Fires 
Burning"  "When  Irish  Eyes  Are  Smiling" 
and  "Hallelujah!  I'm  a  Hobo!"  The  latter 
very  popular.  Then  there  was  another, 
adapted  by  the  Salvation  Army  from  an  old 
m~£sic-hall  tune,  which  I  heard  a  battalion 
chanting  lustily  as  it  went  slush-slushing  up 
to  the  firing-line.  It  ran  something  like  this: 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      237 

"The  Bells  of  Hell  go  ting-a-ling-a-ling 
For  you  but  not  for  me. 
For  me  the  angels  sing-a-ling-a-ling, 
They've  got  the  goods  for  me. 
O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting-a-ling-a-ling, 
O  Grave  thy  victoree? 
The  Bells  of  Hell  go  ting-a-ling-a-ling 
For  you  but  not  for  me !" 

It  is  almost  impossible  to  make  oneself  be- 
lieve that,  less  than  two  years  ago,  these  iron- 
hard,  sun  -  bronzed,  determined  -  looking  men 
were  keeping  books,  tending  shop,  waiting  on 
table,  driving  wagons,  and  doing  all  the  other 
humdrum  things  which  make  up  the  working 
lives  of  most  of  us.  Yet  this  citizen  army  is 
winning  sensational  successes  against  the  best 
trained  troops  in  the  world,  occupying  posi- 
tions of  their  own  choosing,  fortified  and  de- 
fended with  every  device  that  human  ingenu- 
ity and  years  of  experience  have  been  able  to 
suggest.  These  ex-shopkeepers,  ex-tailors, 
ex-lawyers,  ex-farmers,  ex-cabmen  are  accom- 
plishing what  most  military  authorities  as- 
serted was  impossible:  they  are  driving  Ger- 


-238  ITALY    AT    WAR 

man  veterans  out  of  trenches  amply  supported 
by  artillery — and  they  are  doing  the  job  cheer- 
fully and  extremely  well. 

I  believe  that  one  of  the  reasons  why  the 
morale  of  the  British  is  so  high  is  because,  in- 
stead of  adopting  the  dugout  life  of  the  Ger- 
mans, they  have  in  the  main  kept  to  the  open. 
Trench  life  is  anything  but  pleasant,  yet  it  is 
infinitely  more  conducive  to  confidence,  cour- 
age, and  enthusiasm  than  the  rat-like  existence 
of  the  Germans  in  foul-smelling,  ill-lighted, 
unsanitary  burrows  far  beneath  the  surface  of 
the  ground.  Few  men  can  remain  for  month 
after  month  in  such  a  place  and  retain  their 
optimism  and  their  self-respect.  One  of  the 
German  dugouts  which  I  saw  on  the  Somme 
was  so  deep  in  the  earth  that  it  had  two  hun- 
dred steps.  The  Germans  who  were  found  in 
it  admitted  quite  frankly  that  after  enjoying 
for  several  weeks  or  months  the  safety  which 
it  afforded,  they  had  no  stomach  for  going 
back  to  the  trenches.  They  were  only  too  glad 
to  crawl  into  their  hole  when  the  British  bar- 


u 


O        o 

' 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      239 

rage  began  and  there  they  were  trapped  and 
surrendered. 

Germany  largely  based  her  confidence  of 
victory  on  the  belief  that,  under  the  strain  of 
war,  the  far-flung  British  Empire,  with  its 
heterogeneous  elements  and  racial  jealousies, 
would  promptly  crumble.  It  was  a  vital  error. 
Instead  of  crumbling  it  hardened  into  a  unity 
which  is  adamantine.  Canada  has  already 
contributed  half  a  million  men  to  the  British 
armies,  Australia  three  hundred  thousand. 
South  Africa,  by  undertaking  her  own  de- 
fense, released  the  imperial  regiments  stationed 
there.  She  not  only  suppressed  the  German- 
fomented  rebellion,  but  she  conquered  Ger- 
man Southwest  Africa  and  German  East 
Africa,  thus  adding  nearly  a  sixth  of  the  Dark 
Continent  to  the  Empire,  and  has  sent  ten 
thousand  men  to  the  battle-fields  of  Europe. 
Indian  troops  are  fighting  in  France,  in  Mace- 
donia, in  Mesopotamia,  in  Palestine,  and  in 
Egypt.  From  the  West  Indies  have  come 
twelve  thousand  men.  The  Malay  States 


240  ITALY   AT    WAR 

gave  to  the  Empire  a  battleship  and  a  bat- 
talion. A  little  island  in  the  Mediterranean 
raised  the  King's  Own  Malta  Regiment. 
Uganda  and  Nyassaland  raised  and  supported 
the  King's  African  Rifles  —  five  thousand 
strong.  The  British  colonies  on  the  other  sea- 
board of  the  continent  increased  the  West 
African  Field  Force  to  seven  thousand  men. 
The  fishermen  and  lumbermen  from  New- 
foundland won  imperishable  glory  on  the 
Somme.  From  the  coral  atolls  of  the  Fijis 
hastened  six  score  volunteers.  The  Falkland 
Islands,  south  of  South  America,  raised  140 
men.  From  the  Yukon,  Sarawak,  Wei-hai- 
wei,  the  Seychelles,  Hong- Kong,  Belize,  Sas- 
katchewan, Aden,  Tasmania,  British  Guiana, 
Sierra  Leone,  St.  Helena,  the  Gold  Coast, 
poured  Europeward,  at  the  summons  of  the 
Motherland,  an  endless  stream  of  fighting 
men. 

Scattered  in  trenches  and  tents,  in  barracks 
and  billets  over  the  whole  of  Northern  France 
are  men  hailing  from  the  uttermost  parts  of 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      241 

the  earth.  Some  there  are  who  have  spent 
their  lives  searching  for  gold  by  the  light  of 
the  Aurora  Borealis  and  others  who  have 
delved  for  diamonds  on  the  South  African 
veldt.  Some  have  ridden  range  on  the  plains 
of  Texas  and  others  on  the  plains  of  Queens- 
land. When,  in  the  recreation  huts,  the 
phonograph  plays  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  the 
thoughts  of  some  drift  to  nipa-thatched  huts 
on  flaming  tropic  islands,  some  think  of  tin- 
roofed  wooden  cottages  in  the  environs  of 
Sydney  or  Melbourne,  others  of  staid,  old- 
fashioned,  red-brick  houses  in  Halifax  or 
Quebec. 

Serving  as  a  connecting-link  between  the 
British  and  the  French  and  Belgian  armies  is 
a  corps  of  interpreters  known  as  the  liaison. 
As  there  are  well  over  two  million  English- 
men in  France,  a  very  small  percentage  of 
whom  have  any  knowledge  of  French,  the 
liaison  enjoys  no  sinecure.  To  assist  in  the 
billeting  of  British  battalions  in  French  vil- 
lages, to  conduct  negotiations  with  the  canny 


242  ITALY    AT    WAR 

countryfolk  for  food  and  fodder,  to  mollify 
angry  housewives  whose  menages  have  been 
upset  by  boisterous  Tommies  billeted  upon 
them,  to  translate  messages  of  every  descrip- 
tion, to  interrogate  peasants  suspected  of  es- 
pionage— these  are  only  a  few  of  the  duties 
which  the  liaison  officers  are  called  upon  to 
perform.  The  corps  is  recruited  from  Eng- 
lishmen who  have  been  engaged  in  business  in 
Paris,  habitues  of  the  Riviera,  students  of  the 
Latin  Quarter,  French  hairdressers,  head 
waiters,  and  ladies'  tailors  who  have  learned 
English  "as  she  is  spoke"  in  London's  West 
End.  The  officers  of  the  liaison  can  be  readily 
distinguished  by  their  caps,  which  resemble 
those  worn  by  railroad  brakemen,  and  by  the 
gilt  sphinx  on  the  collars  of  their  drab  uni- 
forms. This  emblem  was  chosen  by  Napo- 
leon as  a  badge  for  the  corps  of  interpreters 
he  organized  during  his  Egyptian  campaign, 
but  the  British  unkindly  assert  it  was  selected 
for  the  liaison  officers  because  nobody  can  un- 
derstand them. 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      243 

The  more  I  see  of  the  war  the  more  I  am 
impressed  with  its  utter  impersonality.  It  is 
a  highly  organized  business,  conducted  by  spe- 
cialists, and  into  it  personalities  and  pictur- 
esqueness  seldom  enter.  One  hears  the  noise 
and  the  clamor,  of  course ;  one  sees  the  virility, 
the  intense  activity,  the  feverish  haste,  yet  at 
the  same  time  one  realizes  how  little  the  human 
element  counts;  all  is  machinery  and  mathe- 
matics. I  remember  that  one  day  I  was  lunch- 
ing in  his  dugout  with  an  officer  commanding 
a  battery  of  heavy  howitzers.  Just  as  my  host 
was  serving  the  tinned  peaches  the  telephone- 
bell  jangled.  It  was  an  observation  officer,  up 
near  the  firing-line,  reporting  that  through  his 
telescope  he  had  spotted  a  German  ammuni- 
tion column  passing  through  a  certain  ruined 
hamlet  three  or  four  miles  away.  On  his  map 
the  battery  commander  showed  me  a  small 
square,  probably  not  more  than  three  or  four 
acres  in  extent,  on  which,  in  order  to  "get" 
that  ammunition  column,  his  shells  must  fall- 
Some  rapid  calculations  on  a  pad  of  paper,. 


244  ITALY    AT    WAR 

and,  calling  in  his  subordinate,  he  handed  him 
the  "arithmetic."  A- minute  or  two  later,  from 
a  clump  of  trees  close  by,  there  came  in  rapid 
succession  four  splitting  crashes  and  four  in- 
visible express-trains  went  screeching  toward 
the  German  lines  to  explode,  with  the  roar  that 
scatters  death,  on  a  spot  as  far  away  and  as 
invisible  from  me  as  Washington  Square  is 
from  Grant's  Tomb.  Before  the  echo  of  the 
guns  had  died  away  my  host  was  back  to  his 
tinned  peaches  again.  Neither  he,  nor  any  of 
his  gunners,  knew,  or  ever  would  know,  or, 
indeed,  very  greatly  cared,  what  destruction 
those  shells  had  wrought.  That's  what  I  mean 
by  the  impersonality  of  modern  war. 

Our  car  stopped  with  startling  abruptness 
in  response  to  the  upraised  hand  of  a  giant  in 
khaki  whose  high-crowned  sombrero  and  the 
brass  letters  on  his  shoulder-straps  showed 
that  he  was  a  trooper  of  the  Alberta  Horse. 
On  his  arm  was  a  red  brassard  bearing  the 
magic  letters  M.  P. — Military  Police. 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      245 

"Better  not  go  any  farther,  sir,"  he  said, 
addressing  the  staff-officer  who  was  my  com- 
panion. "The  Bodies  are  shelling  the  road 
just  ahead  pretty  heavily  this  morning.  They 
got  a  lorry  a  few  minutes  ago  and  I've  had 
orders  to  stop  traffic  until  things  quiet  down  a 
bit." 

"I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to  take  to  the  mud,'* 
said  my  cicerone  resignedly.  "And  after  last 
night's  rain  it  will  be  beastly  going. 

"And  don't  forget  your  helmet  and  gas- 
mask," he  called,  as  I  stepped  from  the  car 
into  a  foot  of  oozy  mire. 

"Will  we  need  them?"  I  asked,  for  the  in- 
verted wash-basin  which  the  British  dignify  by 
the  name  of  helmet  is  the  most  uncomfortable 
form  of  headgear  ever  devised  by  man. 

"It's  orders,"  he  answered.  "No  one  is  sup- 
posed to  go  into  the  trenches  without  mask 
and  helmet.  And  there's  never  any  telling 
when  we  may  need  them.  No  use  in  taking 
chances." 

Taking  off  my  leather  coat,  which  was  top 


246  ITALY    AT    WAR 

heavy  for  walking,  I  attempted  to  toss  it  into 
the  car,  but  the  wind  caught  it  and  carried  it 
into  the  mud,  in  which  it  disappeared  as  quickly 
and  completely  as  though  I  had  dropped  it  in 
a  lake.  Leaving  the  comparative  hardness  of 
the  road,  we  started  to  make  our  way  to  the 
mouth  of  a  communication  trench  through 
what  had  evidently  once  been  a  field  of  sugar- 
beets — and  instantly  sank  to  our  knees  in  mire 
that  seemed  to  be  a  mixture  of  molasses,  glue, 
and  porridge.  It  seemed  as  though  some  sub- 
terranean monster  had  seized  my  feet  with  its 
tentacles  and  was  trying  to  drag  me  down.  It 
was  perhaps  half  a  mile  to  the  communication 
trench  and  it  took  us  half  an  hour  of  the  hard- 
est walking  I  have  ever  had  to  reach  it.  It 
had  walls  of  slippery  clay  and  a  corduroyed 
bottom,  but  the  corduroy  was  hidden  beneath 
the  mud  left  by  thousands  of  feet.  Telephone- 
wires,  differentiated  by  tags  of  colored  tape, 
ran  down  the  sides.  Shortly  we  came  upon  a 
working  party  of  Highlanders  who  were  re- 
pairing the  trench-wall.  The  wars  of  the 


o    -5 


"o     a 


Middle  Ages  could  have  seen  no  more  strange- 
ly costumed  fighting  men.  Above  their  half- 
puttees  showed  the  brilliantly  plaided  tops  of 
their  stockings.  Their  kilts  of  green  and  blue 
tartan  were  protected  by  khaki  aprons.  Each 
man  wore  one  of  the  recently  issued  jerkins,  a 
sleeveless  and  shapeless  coat  of  rough-tanned 
sheepskin  such  as  was  probably  worn,  in  cen- 
turies past,  by  the  English  bowmen.  On  their 
heads  were  the  "tin  pot"  helmets  such  as  we 
were  wearing,  and  in  leather  cases  at  their 
belts  they  carried  broad-bladed  and  extremely 
vicious-looking  knives. 

For  nearly  an  hour  we  slipped  and  stumbled 
through  the  endless  cutting.  At  one  spot  the 
parapet,  soaked  by  water,  had  caved  in.  In 
the  breach  thus  made  had  been  planted  a 
neatly  lettered  sign.  It  was  terse  and  to  the 
point:  "The  Hun  sees  you  here.  Go  away." 
And  we  did.  The  trench  had  gradually  been 
growing  narrower  and  shallower  and  more 
tortuous  until  we  were  walking  half  doubled 
over  so  as  not  to  show  our  heads  above  the 


248  ITALY    AT    WAR 

top.  At  last  it  came  to  an  end  in  a  sort  of 
cellar,  perhaps  six  feet  square,  which  had  been 
burrowed  from  the  ridge  of  a  hill.  The  en- 
trance to  the  observatory,  for  that  is  what  it 
was,  had  been  carefully  screened  by  a  burlap 
curtain;  within,  a  telescope,  mounted  on  a  tri- 
pod, applied  its  large  and  inquisitive  eye  to  a 
small  aperture,  likewise  curtained,  cut  in  the 
opposite  wall.  We  were  in  the  advanced  ob- 
servation post  on  the  slopes  of  Notre  Dame  de 
Lorette,  less  than  a  thousand  yards  from  the 
enemy.  At  the  foot  of  the  spur  on  which  we 
stood  ran  the  British  trenches  and,  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  beyond  them,  the  German.  From 
our  vantage-point  we  could  see  the  two  lines, 
looking  like  monstrous  brown  snakes,  extend- 
ing for  miles  across  the  plain.  Perhaps  a  mile 
behind  the  German  trenches  was  a  patch  of 
red-brown  roofs.  It  was  the  town  of  Lieven, 
a  straggling  suburb  of  Lens,  famous  as  the 
centre  of  the  mine-fields  of  Northern  France. 
The  only  occupants  of  the  observation  post 
were  a  youthful  Canadian  lieutenant  and  a 


sergeant  of  the  "Buzzers,"  as  they  call  the  Sig- 
nal Corps.  The  officer  was  from  Montreal 
and  he  instantly  became  my  friend  when  I 
spoke  of  golf  at  Dixie  and  rides  in  the  woods 
back  of  Mount  Royal  and  a  certain  cocktail 
which  they  make  with  great  perfection  in  a 
certain  club  that  we  both  knew.  He  adjusted 
the  telescope  and  I  put  my  eye  to  it,  where- 
upon the  streets  of  the  distant  town  sprang 
into  life  before  me.  In  front  of  a  cottage  a 
woman  was  hanging  out  washing — I  could 
even  make  out  the  colors  of  the  garments;  a 
gray  motor  whirled  into  a  square,  stopped,  a 
man  alighted,  and  it  went  on  again;  a  group 
of  men — German  soldiers  doubtless — strolled 
across  my  field  of  vision  and  one  of  them 
paused  for  a  moment  as  though  to  light  a  pipe; 
along  a  street  straggled  a  line  of  children,  evi- 
dently coming  from  school,  for  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  in  most  of  these  French  towns 
occupied  by  the  Germans,  even  those  close  be- 
hind the  lines,  the  civilian  life  goes  on  much  as 
usual.  Though  the  Allies  could  blow  these 


250  ITALY    AT    WAR 

towns  off  the  map  if  they  wished,  they  do  not 
bombard  them  save  for  some  specific  object,  as 
to  do  so  would  be  to  kill  many  of  their  own 
people.  Nor  does  it  pay  to  waste  ammunition 
on  individual  enemies.  But  if  an  observation 
officer  sees  enough  Germans  in  a  group  to 
make  the  expenditure  of  ammunition  worth 
while,  he  will  telephone  to  one  of  the  batteries 
and  a  well-placed  shell  tells  the  Germans  that 
street  gatherings  are  strictly  verboten. 

"Sorry  that  you  weren't  here  yesterday," 
the  lieutenant  remarked.  "We  had  a  little 
entertainment  of  our  own.  Do  you  see  that 
square?"  and  he  swung  the  barrel  of  the  tele- 
scope so  that  it  commanded  a  cobble-paved 
place,  with  a  small  fountain  in  the  centre, 
flanked  on  three  sides  by  rows  of  red-brick 
dwellings. 

"I  see  it  plainly,"  I  told  him. 

"The  Boches  are  evidently  billeting  their 
men  in  those  houses,"  he  continued.  "Yester- 
day morning  an  army  baker's  cart  drove  into 
the  square  and  the  soldiers  came  piling  out  of 


"CONTEMPTIBLE    LITTLE    ARMY"      251 

the  houses  to  get  their  bread  ration.  There 
was  quite  a  crowd  of  them  around  the  cart, 
so  I  phoned  back  to  the  gunners  and  they 
dropped  a  shell  bang  into  the  square.  The 
soldiers  scattered,  of  course,  and  the  horse 
hitched  to  the  cart  took  fright  and  ran  away. 
The  cart  tipped  over  and  the  bread  spilled 
out.  After  a  few  minutes  the  men  came  out 
of  their  cellars  and  began  to  gather  up  the 
bread,  so  we  shelled  'em  again.  The  next  time 
they  sent  out  the  women  to  pick  up  the  loaves. 
We  let  them  alone — French  women,  you  un- 
derstand— until  I  saw  the  Huns  beating  the 
women  and  taking  the  bread  away  from  them. 
That  made  me  mad  and  for  ten  minutes  we 
strafed  that  section  of  the  town  good  and 
plenty.  It  was  very  amusing  while  it  lasted. 
And,"  he  added  wistfully,  "we  don't  get  much 
amusement  here." 

Darkness  had  fallen,  when  cold  and  tired, 
we  climbed  stiffly  into  the  waiting  car.  As  we 
tore  down  the  long,  straight  road  which  led  to 


252  ITALY   AT    WAR 

General  Headquarters  the  purple  velvet  of 
the  eastern  sky  was  stabbed  by  fiery  flashes, 
many  of  them,  and,  borne  on  the  night  wind, 
came  the  sullen  growling  of  the  guns.  As  I 
stared  out  into  the  flame-pricked  darkness 
there  passed  before  me  in  imaginary  review 
that  endless  stream  of  dauntless  and  deter- 
mined men — mud-caked  infantrymen,  gun- 
ners, despatch  riders,  sappers,  pioneers,  mo- 
tor-drivers, road-menders,  mechanics,  railway- 
builders — who  form  that  wall  of  steel  which 
Britain  has  thrown  between  Western  Europe 
and  the  Hunnish  hordes.  Unyielding  and  un- 
discouraged  they  have  stood,  for  close  on  three 
years,  in  winter  and  in  summer,  in  heat  and  in 
cold,  in  snow  and  in  rain,  holding  the  frontier 
of  civilization.  And  I  knew  that  it  was  safe 
in  their  care. 


VIII 

WITH    THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER 

I  HAD  left  the  Belgian  army  late  in  the 
autumn  of  1914,  just  at  the  close  of  that 
series  of  heroic  actions  which  began  at  Liege 
and  ended  on  the  Yser,  so  that  my  return,  two 
years  later,  was  in  the  nature  of  a  home-com- 
ing. But  it  was  a  home-coming  deeply  tinged 
with  sadness,  for  many,  oh,  so  many  of  the 
gallant  fellows  with  whom  I  had  campaigned 
in  those  stirring  days  before  the  trench  robbed 
war  of  its  picturesqueness,  were  in  German 
prisons  or  lay  in  unmarked  and  forgotten 
graves  before  ]N"amur  and  Antwerp  and  Ter- 
monde.  The  Belgians  that  I  had  left  were 
dirty,  dog-tired,  and  disheartened.  They  were 
short  of  food,  short  of  ammunition,  short  of 
everything  save  valor.  The  picturesque  but 
impractical  uniforms  they  wore — the  green 
tunics  and  cherry-colored  breeches  of  the 

253 


254  ITALY    AT    WAR 

Guides,  the  towering  bearskins  of  the  gen- 
darmes, the  shiny  leather  hats  of  the  Carabi- 
nieri — were  foul  with  blood  and  dirt. 

,As  my  car  rolled  across  a  canal  bridge  into 
that  tiny  triangle  which  is  all  that  remains  of 
free  Belgium,  a  trim-looking  trooper  in  khaki 
stepped  from  a  sentry-box  and,  holding  up  an 
imperative  hand,  demanded  to  see  my  papers. 
Had  it  not  been  for  the  rosette  of  red-yellow- 
and-black  enamel  on  his  cap,  and  the  colored 
regimental  facings  on  his  collar,  I  should  have 
taken  him  for  a  British  soldier. 

"To  what  regiment  do  you  belong?"  I  asked 
him. 

"The  First  Guides,  monsieur,"  he  replied, 
returning  my  papers  and  saluting. 

The  First  Guides!  What  memories,  the 
name  brought  back.  How  well  I  remembered 
the  last  time  that  I  had  seen  those  gallant 
riders,  the  pick  and  flower  of  the  Belgian 
army,  their  comic-opera  uniforms  yellow  with 
dust,  crouching  behind  the  hedgerows  on  the 
road  to  Alost,  a  pitifully  thin  screen  of  them, 


THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER      255 

holding  off  the  Germans  while  their  weary 
comrades  tramped  northward  into  Flanders 
on  the  great  retreat.  It  was  not  easy  to  make 
myself  believe  that  this  smart,  khaki-clad 
trooper  before  me  belonged  to  that  homeless 
band  of  rear-guard  fighters  who  had  marked 
with  their  dead  the  line  of  retreat  from  the 
Meuse  to  the  Yser. 

It  was  my  first  glimpse  of  the  reconstituted 
Belgian  army.  In  the  two  years  that  it  has 
been  holding  the  line  on  the  Yser  it  has  been 
completely  reunif ormed,  re-equipped,  reorgan- 
ized. The  result  is  a  small  but  complete  and 
highly  efficient  organism.  The  Belgian  army 
consists  to-day  of  six  infantry  and  two  cavalry 
divisions — a  total  of  about  120,000  men — with 
perhaps  another  80,000  being  drilled  in  the 
various  training  camps  at  the  rear.  It  has,  of 
course,  no  great  reserves  to  fall  back  upon, 
for  the  greater  part  of  the  nation  is  imprisoned, 
but  the  King  and  his  generals,  by  unremitting 
energy,  have  produced  a  force  which  is  as  well 
disciplined  and  as  completely  equipped  as  can 


256  ITALY    AT    WAR 

be  found  anywhere  on  the  front.  When  the 
day  comes,  as  it  surely  will,  when  Berlin  issues 
the  orders  for  a  general  retirement,  I  shouldn't 
care  to  be  the  Germans  who  are  assigned  to 
the  work  of  holding  off  the  Belgians,  for  from 
the  men  who  wear  the  red-yellow-and-black 
rosettes  they  need  expect  no  pity. 

Though  the  shortest  of  the  lines  held  by  the 
Allies,  the  Belgian  front  is,  in  proportion  to 
the  free  Belgian  population,  much  the  long- 
est. The  northernmost  sector  of  the  Western 
Front,  beginning  at  the  sea  and  extending 
through  Nieuport,  a  distance  of  only  three  or 
four  miles,  is  held  by  the  French;  then  come 
the  twenty-three  miles  held  by  the  Belgians, 
another  two  or  three  miles  held  by  the  French; 
and  then  the  British.  The  Belgians  occupy  a 
difficult  and  extremely  uncomfortable  position, 
for  these  Flemish  lowlands  were  inundated  in 
order  to  check  the  German  advance,  and  as  a 
result  they  are  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  swamp, 
which,  in  the  rainy  season,  becomes  a  lake. 
They  are,  in  fact,  fighting  under  conditions 


THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER      257 

not  encountered  on  any  other  front  save  in  the 
Mazurian  marshes.  During  the  rainy  season 
the  gunners  of  certain  batteries  frequently 
work  in  water  up  to  their  waists.  So  wet  is 
the  soil  that  dugouts  are  out  of  the  question, 
for  they  instantly  become  cisterns,  so  the  Bel- 
gian engineers  have  developed  a  type  of  above- 
ground  shelter  which  has  concrete  walls  and 
a  roof  of  steel  rails,  on  top  of  which  are  laid 
several  layers  of  sand-bags.  Though  these 
shelters  afford  their  occupants  protection  from 
the  fire  of  small-caliber  guns,  they  are  not 
proof  against  the  heavy  projectiles  which  the 
Germans  periodically  rain  upon  the  Belgian 
trenches.  As  the  soil  is  so  soft  and  slimy  as 
to  be  useless  for  defensive  purposes,  the  trench- 
walls  are  for  the  most  part  built  of  sand-bags, 
which  are,  however,  usually  filled  with  clay, 
for  sand  must  be  brought  by  incredible  exer- 
tions from  the  seashore.  I  was  shown  a  single 
short  sector  on  the  Yser,  where  six  million 
bags  were  used.  For  the  floors  of  these  shel- 
ters, as  well  as  for  innumerable  other  pur- 


258  ITALY    AT    WAR 

poses,  millions  of  feet  of  lumber  are  required, 
which  is  taken  up  to  the  front  over  the  net- 
work of  light  railways,  some  of  which  pene- 
trate to  the  actual  firing-line.  If  trench- 
building  materials  are  scarce  in  Flanders,  fuel 
is  scarcer.  Every  stick  of  wood  and  every 
piece  of  coal  burned  on  the  front  has  to  be 
brought  from  great  distances  and  at  great  ex- 
pense, so  economy  in  fuel  consumption  is  rigid- 
ly enforced.  I  remember  walking  through  a 
trench  with  a  Belgian  officer  one  bitterly  cold 
and  rainy  day  last  winter.  In  a  corner  of  the 
trench  a  soldier  in  soaking  clothes  had  piled 
together  a  tiny  mound  of  twigs  and  roots  and 
over  the  feeble  flame  was  trying  to  warm  his 
hands,  which  were  blue  with  cold.  To  my  sur- 
prise my  companion  stopped  and  spoke  to  the 
man  quite  sharply. 

"We  can't  let  one  man  have  a  fire  all  to 
himself,"  he  explained  as  he  rejoined  me. 
"Wood  is  too  scarce  for  that.  The  fire  that 
fellow  had  would  have  warmed  three  or  four 
men  and  I  had  to  reprimand  him  for  building 


THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER      259 

it."     A  moment  later  he  added:    "The  poor 
devil  looked  pretty  cold,  though,  didn't  he?" 

I  had  been  informed  by  telephone  from  the 
Belgian  Etat-Major  that  a  staff-officer  would 
meet  me  at  a  certain  little  frontier  town  whose 
name  I  have  forgotten  how  to  spell.  After 
many  inquiries  and  wrong  turnings,  for  in  this 
corner  of  Belgium  the  Flemish  peasantry  un- 
derstand but  little  French  and  no  English,  my 
driver  succeeded  in  finding  the  town,  but  the 
officer  who  was  to  meet  me  had  not  arrived. 
It  was  too  cold  to  sit  in  the  car  with  comfort, 
so  a  lieutenant  of  gendarmerie,  the  chief  of  the 
local  Surete,  invited  me  to  make  myself  com- 
fortable in  his  little  office.  After  a  time  the 
conversation  languished,  and,  for  want  of 
something  better  to  say,  I  inquired  how  far  it 
was  to  Ostend.  I  was  interested  in  knowing, 
because  during  the  retreat  of  the  Belgian  army 
in  October,  1914, 1  left  two  kit-bags  rilled  with 
perfectly  good  clothes  at  the  American  Con- 
sulate in  Ostend.  They  are  there  still,  I  sup- 


260  ITALY    AT    WAR 

pose,  provided  the  Consulate  has  not  been 
shelled  to  pieces  by  the  British  monitors  or 
the  bags  stolen  by  German  soldiers. 

"Ostend?"  repeated  the  gendarme.  "It 
isn't  over  thirty  kilometres  from  here.  From 
the  roof  of  this  building,  if  the  weather  was 
fine,  you  could  almost  see  its  church-spires." 

He  walked  across  to  the  window  and,  press- 
ing his  face  against  the  pane,  stared  out  across 
the  fog-hung  lowlands.  He  so  stood  for  some 
minutes  and  when  he  turned  I  noticed  that 
tears  were  glistening  in  his  eyes. 

"My  wife  and  children  are  over  there  in 
Ostend,"  he  explained,  in  a  voice  which  he 
tried  pathetically  hard  to  control.  "At  least, 
they  were  there  two  years  ago  last  August. 
They  had  gone  there  for  the  summer.  I  was 
in  Brussels  when  the  Germans  crossed  the 
frontier,  and  I  at  once  joined  the  army.  I 
have  never  heard  from  my  family  since.  It  is 
very  hard,  monsieur,  to  be  so  near  them — they 
are  only  thirty  kilometres  away — and  not  be 
able  to  see  them  or  to  hear  from  them,  or  even 


THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER      261 

be  able  to  learn  whether  they  are  well  or 
whether  they  have  enough  to  eat." 

It  is  a  terrible  thing,  this  prison  wall  within 
which  the  Germans  have  shut  up  the  people  of 
Belgium.  How  terrible  it  is  one  cannot  realize 
until  he  has  known  those  whose  dear  ones  are 
confined  incommunicado  within  that  prison. 
I  wish  I  might  bring  home  to  you,  my  friends, 
just  what  it  means.  How  would  you  feel  to 
stand  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson  and  look 
across  into  New  Jersey  and  know  that,  though 
over  there,  a  few  miles  away,  were  your  homes 
and  those  that  you  hold  most  dear,  you  could 
no  more  get  word  to  them,  or  they  to  you, 
than  if  they  were  in  Mars?  And  how  would 
you  feel  if  you  knew  that  Englewood  and 
Morristown  and  Plainfield  and  the  Oranges, 
and  a  dozen  other  of  the  pretty  Jersey  towns, 
were  but  heaps  of  blackened  ruins,  that  the 
larger  cities  were  garrisoned  by  brutal  Ger- 
man soldiery  and  ruled  by  heartless  German 
governors,  and  that  thousands  of  women  and 
girls — perhaps  your  wife,  your  daughters 


262  ITALY    AT    WAR 

among  them — had  been  dragged  from  their 
homes  and  taken  God  knows  where?  How 
would  you  feel  then,  Mr.  American? 

After  an  hour's  wait  my  officer,  profuse  in 
his  apologies,  arrived  in  a  beautifully  ap- 
pointed limousine,  beside  which  the  British 
staff -car  in  which  I  had  come  looked  cheap 
and  very  shabby.  At  the  very  beginning  of 
the  war  the  Belgian  military  authorities  com- 
mandeered every  car  they  could  lay  their  hands 
on,  and  though  many  have  been  worn  out  and 
hundreds  were  lost  during  the  retreat,  they 
are  still  rather  better  supplied  with  luxurious 
cars  than  any  of  the  other  armies. 

"There  will  be  a  moon  to-night,"  said  my 
cicerone,  "so  before  going  to  La  Panne,  where 
quarters  have  been  reserved  for  you,  I  shall 
take  you  to  Furnes.  The  Grande  Place  is 
pure  Spanish — it  was  built  in  the  Duke  of 
Alva's  time,  you  know — and  it  is  very  beauti- 
ful by  moonlight." 

The  road  to  Furnes  took  us  through  what 


THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER      263 

had  been,  a  few  years  before,  quaint  Flemish 
villages,  but  German  Kultur,  aided  by  the 
products  of  Frau  Bertha  Krupp,  had  trans- 
formed the  beautiful  sixteenth-century  archi- 
tecture into  heaps  of  brick  and  stone.  And 
nowhere  did  I  see  a  church  left  standing. 
Whether  the  Germans  shelled  the  churches  be- 
cause they  honestly  believed  that  their  towers 
were  used  for  observation  purposes,  or  from 
sheer  lust  for  destruction,  I  do  not  know.  In 
any  event,  the  churches  are  gone.  In  one  little 
shell-torn  village  my  companion  pointed  out 
to  me  the  ruins  of  a  church,  amid  which  a  com- 
pany of  infantry,  going  up  to  the  trenches, 
had  camped  for  the  night.  Just  as  the  men 
were  falling  in  at  daybreak  a  German  shell  of 
large  caliber  exploded  among  them.  Sixty- 
four — I  think  that  was  the  number — were 
killed  outright  or  died  of  their  wounds.  But 
not  even  the  dead  are  permitted  to  sleep  in 
peace.  I  saw  several  churchyards  on  which 
German  shells  had  rained  so  heavily  that  the 
corpses  had  been  disinterred,  and  whitened 


264  ITALY    AT    WAR 

bones  and  grinning  skulls  littered  the 
ploughed-up  ground. 

Darkness  had  fallen  when  we  came  to 
Furnes.  In  passing  through  the  outskirts,  we 
stopped  to  call  on  two  young  women — an  Irish 
girl  and  a  Canadian — who,  undismayed  by  the 
periodic  shell-storms  which  visit  it,  have  pluck- 
ily  stayed  in  the  town  ever  since  the  battle  of 
the  Yser,  caring  for  the  few  hundred  towns- 
people who  remain,  nursing  the  wounded,  and 
even  conducting  a  school  for  the  children. 
They  live  in  a  small  bungalow  which  the  mili- 
tary authorities  have  erected  for  them  on  the 
edge  of  the  town.  A  few  yards  from  their 
front  door  is  a  bomb-proof,  looking  exactly 
like  a  Kansas  cyclone-cellar,  in  which  they  find 
refuge  when  one  of  the  frequent  bombard- 
ments begins.  We  found  that  the  young 
women  were  not  at  home.  I  was  disappointed, 
because  I  wanted  to  tell  them  how  much  I 
admired  them. 

My  companion  was  quite  right  in  saying 
that  the  Grande  Place  of  Furnes  by  moon- 


THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER      265 

light  is  worth  seeing.  It  certainly  is.  The  ex- 
quisite fifteenth-century  buildings  which  face 
upon  the  square  have,  by  some  miracle,  re- 
mained almost  undamaged.  There  were  no 
lights,  of  course,  and  the  only  person  in  sight 
was  a  sentry,  on  whose  bayonet  and  steel  hel- 
met the  moonbeams  played  fitfully.  The 
darkness,  the  silence,  the  suggestion  of  mys- 
tery, the  ancient  buildings  with  their  leaded 
windows  and  their  carved  fa9ades,  the  steel- 
capped  soldier,  all  made  me  feel  that  I  had 
stepped  back  five  hundred  years  and  was  in 
the  Furnes  of  Inquisition  times. 

Our  visit  to  Furnes  had  delayed  us,  so  it 
was  well  into  the  evening  before  we  drew  up 
before  the  hotel  in  La  Panne,  where  a  room 
had  been  reserved  for  me  by  the  Belgian  Etat- 
Major.  A  seaside  resort  in  midwinter  is  al- 
ways a  peculiarly  depressing  place,  and  La 
Panne  was  no  exception.  Though  every  hotel 
and  villa  in  the  place  was  chock-a-block  with 
staff -officers,  with  nurses,  and  with  wounded, 
the  street-lamps  were  extinguished^  not  a  ray 


266  ITALY    AT    WAR 

of  light  escaped  from  the  heavily  curtained 
windows,  and,  to  add  to  the  general  sense  of 
melancholy,  a  cold,  raw  wind  was  blowing 
down  from  the  North  Sea  and  a  drizzling  rain 
had  set  in.  Though  La  Panne  is  within  easy 
range  of  the  German  batteries,  which  could 
eliminate  it  with  neatness  and  despatch,  it  has, 
singularly  enough,  never  been  bombarded,  nor 
has  it  been  subjected  to  any  serious  air  raids. 
This  is  the  more  surprising  as  all  the  neighbor- 
ing towns,  as  well  as  Dunkirk,  a  dozen  miles 
beyond,  have  been  repeatedly  shelled  and 
bombed.  The  only  explanation  of  this  phe- 
nomenon is  that  the  Germans  do  not  wish  to 
kill  the  Queen  of  the  Belgians — she  was  Prin- 
cess Elisabeth  of  Bavaria,  remember — who 
lives  with  the  King  at  La  Panne.  It  is  pos- 
sible that  this  may  be  the  correct  explanation. 
I  remember  that  when  I  was  in  Brussels  dur- 
ing the  early  days  of  the  German  occupation, 
there  occurred  a  serious  collision  between 
Prussian  and  Bavarian  troops,  the  latter  as- 
serting that  the  ill-mannered  North  German 


THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER      267 

soldiery  had  shown  some  disrespect  to  a  por- 
trait of  "unsere  Bayerische  Prinzessin."  Why 
the  Germans  should  have  any  consideration 
for  the  safety  of  the  Queen  after  the  fashion 
in  which  they  have  treated  her  country  and  her 
people,  only  a  Teutonic  intellect  could  under- 
stand. But  the  exemption  which  La  Panne 
has  thus  far  enjoyed  has  not  induced  its  in- 
habitants to  omit  any  precautions.  An  am- 
ple number  of  bomb-proofs  and  dugouts  have 
been  constructed,  and  at  night  over  all  the 
windows  are  tacked  thick  black  curtains.  For 
they  know  the  Germans. 

La  Panne  is  the  last  town  on  the  Belgian 
littoral  before  you  reach  the  French  frontier 
and  the  last  villa  in  the  town  is  occupied  by 
the  King  and  Queen.  It  stands  amid  the 
sand-dunes,  looking  out  across  the  Channel 
toward  England.  It  is  just  such  a  square, 
plastered,  eight-room  villa  as  might  be  rented 
for  the  summer  months  by  a  family  with  an 
income  of  five  thousand  a  year.  The  sentries 
who  are  on  duty  at  its  gates  and  the  mounted 


268  ITALY    AT    WAR 

gendarmes  who  constantly  patrol  its  imme- 
diate vicinity,  are  the  only  signs  that  it  is  the 
residence  of  royalty.  Almost  any  morning 
you  can  see  the  King  and  Queen — he  tall  and 
soldierly,  with  all  griefs  and  anxieties  which 
the  war  has  brought  him  showing  in  his  face; 
she  small  and  trim  and  girlishly  slender — rid- 
ing on  the  hard  sands  of  the  beach,  or  strolling, 
unaccompanied,  amid  the  dunes.  What  must 
it  mean  to  them  to  know  that  though  over 
there  to  the  eastward  lies  Belgium,  their  Bel- 
gium, they  cannot  ride  five  miles  toward  it 
before  they  are  halted  by  the  German  bar; 
to  know  that  beyond  that  little  river  where  the 
trenches  run  their  people  are  suffering  and 
waiting  for  help,  and  that,  after  nearly  three 
years,  they  are  not  a  yard  nearer  to  them? 

How  clearly  I  remembered  the  last  time 
that  I  had  seen  the  Queen.  It  was  in  the 
Hotel  St.  Antoine,  in  Antwerp,  the  night  be- 
fore the  flight  of  the  Government  and  the 
royal  family  to  Ostend,  and  less  than  a  week 
before  the  fall  of  the  city  itself.  For  days 


THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER      269 

past  the  grumble  of  the  guns  had  constantly 
been  growing  louder,  the  streams  of  wounded 
had  steadily  increased;  every  one  knew  that 
the  end  was  almost  at  hand.  It  was  just  be- 
fore the  dinner-hour  and  the  great  lobby  of 
the  hotel  was  crowded  with  officers — Belgian, 
French,  and  British — with  members  of  the 
fugitive  Government  and  Diplomatic  Corps, 
and  a  few  unofficial  foreigners  like  myself. 
Then,  unannounced  and  unaccompanied,  the 
Queen  entered.  She  had  come  to  say  farewell 
to  the  invalid  wife  of  the  Russian  Minister, 
who  was  unable  to  go  to  the  palace.  She  re- 
mained in  the  Russians'  apartments  (during 
the  bombardment,  a  few  days  later,  they  were 
completely  wrecked  by  a  German  shell)  half 
an  hour  perhaps.  Then  she  came  down  the 
winding  stairs,  a  pathetically  girlish  figure  in 
the  simplest  of  white  suits,  leaning  on  the  arm 
of  the  gallant  old  diplomat.  Quite  automati- 
cally the  throng  in  the  lobby  separated,  so  as 
to  form  an  aisle  down  which  she  passed.  To 
those  of  us  who  were  nearest  she  put  out  her 


270  ITALY    AT    WAR 

hand  and,  bending  low,  we  kissed  it.  Then 
the  great  doors  were  opened  and  she  passed 
out  into  the  darkness  and  the  rain — a  Queen 
without  a  country. 

No  one  comes  away  from  La  Panne,  at  least 
no  one  should,  without  having  visited  the  great 
hospital  founded  by  Dr.  Leon  du  Page,  the 
famous  Belgian  surgeon.  It  started  in  one  of 
the  big  tourist  hotels  facing  on  the  sea,  but  it 
has  gradually  expanded  until  it  now  occupies 
a  whole  congeries  of  buildings.  It  has  upward 
of  a  thousand  beds,  but,  as  the  fighting  was 
comparatively  light  at  the  time  I  was  there, 
only  about  two-thirds  of  them  were  occupied. 
Though  the  American  Ambulance  at  Neuilly, 
and  some  of  the  hospitals  at  the  British  base- 
camps  are  larger,  Dr.  du  Page's  hospital  is 
the  most  complete  and  self-contained  that  I 
have  seen  on  any  front.  To  mend  the  broken 
men  who  are  brought  there  no  device  of  medi- 
cal science  has  been  left  untried.  There  are 
giant  magnets  which  are  used  to  draw  minute 


THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER      271 

steel  fragments  from  the  brains  of  men 
wounded  by  shrapnel;  there  are  beds,  heated 
by  hundreds  of  electric  lights,  for  soldiers 
whose  vitality  has  been  dangerously  lowered 
by  shock  or  exhaustion ;  there  is  a  department 
of  facial  surgery  where  men  who  have  lost 
their  noses  or  their  jaws  or  even  their  faces 
are  given  new  ones.  The  hospital  is,  as  I  have 
said,  self-contained.  The  operating-tables,  the 
beds,  all  the  furniture,  in  fact,  is  made  on 
the  premises.  It  is  the  only  hospital  I  know 
of  which  provides  those  patients  who  have  lost 
their  legs  with  artificial  limbs.  And  they  are 
by  far  the  best  artificial  limbs  that  I  have  seen 
anywhere.  Each  one  is  made  to  order  to 
match  the  man's  remaining  limb.  They  are 
shaped  over  plaster  casts,  according  to  a  sys- 
tem originated  by  Dr.  du  Page,  in  alternate 
layers  of  glue  and  ordinary  shavings,  and  the 
articulation  of  the  joints  almost  equals  that  of 
nature.  As  a  result  the  soldiers  are  sent  out 
into  the  world  provided  with  legs  which  are 
symmetrical,  almost  unbreakable,  amazingly 


272  ITALY    AT    WAR 

light,  and  so  admirably  constructed  that  the 
owner  rarely  requires  the  assistance  of  a  cane. 
Another  detail  for  which  Dr.  du  Page  has 
made  provision  is  the  manufacture  of  his  own 
instruments.  Before  the  war  the  best  surgical 
instruments  were  made  in  Germany.  There 
were,  so  far  as  Dr.  du  Page  knew,  only  five 
first  -  class  instrument  -  makers  in  Belgium. 
Three  of  these  were,  he  ascertained,  in  the 
army,  so  through  the  King  he  obtained  their 
release  from  military  duty.  Now  they  work 
in  a  completely  equipped  shop  in  the  rear  of 
the  hospital  making  the  shiny,  terrifying  in- 
struments which  the  white-clad  surgeons  wield 
with  such  magical  effect. 

Should  you  feel  like  giving  up  the  theatre 
this  evening,  or  taking  a  street-car  instead  of 
a  taxi,  or  not  opening  that  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne, the  money  would  be  very  welcome  to 
Dr.  du  Page  and  his  wounded.  Should  you 
feel  that  that  is  too  much  to  give,  it  might  be 
well  for  you  to  remember  that  he  has  given 
something,  too.  He  gave  his  wife.  She  was 


THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER      273 

returning  from  America,  where  she  had  gone 
to  collect  funds  to  carry  on  the  work  of  the 
hospital.  She  sailed  on  the  Lusitama.  .  .  . 

To  reach  the  Belgian  firing-line  is  not  easy 
because,  the  country  being  as  flat  as  a  ball- 
room floor,  the  Germans  see  and  shoot  at  you. 
So  one  needs  to  be  cautious.  So  dangerous  is 
the  terrain  in  this  respect  that  the  ambulances 
and  motor-lorries  and  ammunition-trains  could 
not  get  up  to  the  trenches  at  all  had  not  the 
Belgians,  with  great  foresight,  done  wholesale 
tree-planting.  Most  people  do  not  number 
nursery  work  among  the  duties  of  an  army, 
but  nowadays  it  is.  From  France  and  Eng- 
land the  Belgians  imported  many  saplings, 
thousands  if  not  tens  of  thousands  of  them, 
and  set  them  out  along  the  roads  exposed  to 
German  fire,  and  now  their  foliage  forms  a 
screen  behind  which  troops  and  transport  can 
move  with  comparative  safety.  In  places 
where  trees  would  not  grow  the  roads  have 
been  masked  for  miles  with  screens  made  from 


274  ITALY    AT    WAR 

branches.  To  have  one  of  these  screens  be- 
tween you  and  the  Germans  is  very  com- 
forting. 

On  our  way  up  to  the  front  we  made  a 
detour  in  order  that  I  might  call  on  a  friend, 
Mrs.  A.  D.  Winterbottom,  who,  before  her 
marriage  to  a  British  officer,  was  Miss  Apple- 
ton  of  Boston.  In  "Fighting  in  Flanders"  I 
told  about  a  very  brave  deed  which  I  saw  per- 
formed by  Mrs.  Winterbottom.  She  was 
quite  angry  with  me  for  mentioning  it,  but 
because  she  is  an  American  of  whom  her 
countrypeople  have  every  reason  to  be  proud, 
I  am  going  to  tell  about  it  again.  It  was  dur- 
ing the  last  days  of  the  siege  of  Antwerp.  The 
Germans  had  methodically  pounded  to  pieces 
with  their  great  guns  the  chain  of  barrier  forts 
encircling  the  city.  Waelhem  was  one  of  the 
last  to  fall.  When  at  length  the  remnant  of 
the  garrison  evacuated  the  fort  they  brought 
back  word  that  a  score  of  their  comrades,  too 
badly  wounded  to  walk,  remained  within  the 
battered  walls.  So  Mrs.  Winterbottom,  who 


THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER      275 

had  brought  over  from  England  her  big  tour- 
ing-car and  was  driving  it  herself,  said  quietly 
that  she  was  going  to  bring  them  out.  The 
only  way  to  reach  the  fort  was  by  a  straight 
and  narrow  road,  a  mile  long,  on  which  Ger- 
man shells  were  bursting  with  great  accuracy 
and  frequency.  To  me  and  to  the  Belgian 
officers  who  were  with  me,  it  looked  like  a 
short-cut  to  the  cemetery.  But  that  didn't 
deter  Mrs.  Winterbottom.  She  climbed  into 
her  car  and  threw  in  the  clutch  and  jammed 
her  foot  down  on  the  accelerator,  and  went 
tearing  down  that  shell-spattered  highway  at 
top  speed.  She  filled  her  car  with  wounded 
men  and  brought  them  safely  back,  and  then 
returned  and  gathered  up  the  others  who  were 
still  alive.  I  have  seen  few  braver  deeds. 

Mrs.  Winterbottom  remained  with  the  Bel- 
gian army  throughout  the  great  retreat  into 
Flanders,  and  when  it  settled  down  into  the 
trench  life  on  the  Yser,  she  was  officially  at- 
tached to  a  division,  with  which  she  has  re- 
mained ever  since,  moving  when  her  division 


276  ITALY   AT   WAR 

moves.  She  lives  in  a  one-room  shack  which 
the  soldiers  have  built  her  immediately  in  the 
rear  of  the  trenches  and  within  range  of  the 
enemy's  guns.  Her  only  companion  is  a  dog, 
yet  she  is  as  safe  as  though  she  were  on  Beacon 
Hill,  for  she  is  the  idol  of  the  soldiers.  She 
has  a  large  recreation  tent,  like  the  side-show 
tent  of  a  circus,  but  painted  green  to  escape 
the  attention  of  the  German  airmen,  and  in 
this  tent  she  entertains  the  men  during  their 
brief  periods  of  leave  from  the  trenches.  She 
gives  them  coffee,  cocoa,  milk,  and  biscuits; 
she  provides  them  with  writing  materials — I 
forget  how  many  thousand  sheets  of  paper  and 
envelopes  she  told  me  that  they  used  each 
week;  and  she  keeps  them  supplied  with  read- 
ing matter.  Three  times  a  week  she  gives 
"her  boys"  a  phonograph  concert  in  the  first- 
line  trenches.  You  must  have  experienced  the 
misery  and  monotony  of  existence  in  the 
trenches  to  understand  what  these  "concerts" 
mean  to  the  tired  and  homesick  men.  I  asked 
her  if  there  was  anything  that  the  people  at 


THE    BELGIANS    ON   THE    YSER      277 

home  could  send  her,  and  she  replied  rather 
hesitantly  (for  she  is  personally  bearing  the 
entire  expense  of  this  work)  that  she  under- 
stood that  some  small  metal  phonographs  were 
procurable  which  could  easily  be  carried  about 
and  would  not  warp  from  dampness,  for  the 
trenches  on  the  Yser  are  very  wet.  She  also 
said  that  she  would  welcome  phonograph  rec- 
ords of  any  description  and  French  books. 
The  last  I  saw  of  her  she  was  wading  through 
a  sea  of  mud,  in  rubber  boots  and  a  rubber 
coat  and  a  sou'wester,  to  carry  her  "canned 
music"  to  the  men  on  the  firing-line.  They 
ought  to  be  very  proud  of  Mrs.  Winterbottom 
back  in  her  own  home  town. 

The  Belgian  trenches  are  very  much  like 
those  on  other  sectors  of  the  Western  Front, 
except  that  they  are  made  of  sand-bags  in- 
stead of  earth,  are  muddier  and  are  nearer 
the  enemy,  being  separated  from  the  German 
positions,  for  a  considerable  distance,  only  by 
the  Yser,  which  in  places  is  only  forty  yards 
across.  In  fact,  a  baseball  player  could  easily 


278  ITALY    AT    WAR 

sling  a  stone  across  the  river  into  Dixmude, 
or  what  remains  of  it,  for,  like  most  of  the 
other  Flemish  towns,  it  is  now  only  a  black- 
ened skeleton.  Many  cities  have  heen  de- 
stroyed in  the  course  of  this  war,  but  none  of 
them,  unless  it  be  Ypres,  so  nearly  approaches 
complete  obliteration  as  Dixmude.  Pompeii 
is  a  living,  breathing  city  compared  to  it. 
Despite  all  that  has  been  printed  about  the 
devastation  in  the  war  zone,  I  believe  that 
when  the  war  is  over  and  the  hordes  of  curious 
Americans  flock  Europeward,  they  will  be 
stunned  by  the  completeness  of  the  desolation 
which  the  Germans  have  wrought  in  north- 
eastern France  and  Belgium. 

By  far  the  most  interesting  day  I  spent  on 
the  Belgian  front  was  not  in  the  trenches  but 
in  a  long,  low,  wooden  building  well  to  the 
rear.  Over  the  door  was  a  sign  which  read: 
"Section  Photographique  de  1'Armee  Beige." 
Here  are  brought  to  be  developed  and  en- 
larged and  scrutinized  the  hundreds  of  photo- 
graphs which  are  taken  daily  by  Belgian  avi- 


THE    BELGIANS    ON   THE    YSER      279 

ators  flying  over  the  German  lines.  In  no 
department  of  war  work  has  there  been 
greater  progress  during  recent  months  than  in 
photography  by  airplane.  Every  morning  at 
break  of  dawn  scores  of  Belgian  machines — 
and  the  same  is  true  all  down  the  Western 
Front — rise  into  the  air,  and  for  hour  after 
hour  swoop  and  circle  over  the  enemy's  lines, 
taking  countless  photographs  of  his  positions 
by  means  of  specially  made  cameras  fitted  with 
telescopic  lenses.  (The  Allied  fliers  on  the 
Somme  took  seventeen  hundred  photographs 
during  a  single  day.)  Most  of  these  photo- 
graphs are  taken  at  a  height  of  eight  thousand 
to  ten  thousand  feet,*  though  very  much  lower, 
of  course,  when  an  opportunity  presents  itself, 
and  always  with  the  camera  as  nearly  vertical 

*  In  order  to  keep  pace  with  the  steady  improvement  in  range 
and  accuracy  of  anti-aircraft  artillery,  aviators  have  found  it 
necessary  to  operate  at  constantly  increasing  altitudes,  so  that 
it  is  now  not  uncomnfon  for  aerial  combats  to  be  fought  at  a 
height  of  20,000  feet.  Hence,  many  airplanes  are  now  equipped 
with  oxygen-bags  for  use  in  the  rarefied  atmosphere  of  the 
higher  levels.  The  aviators  operating  on  the  Italian  front  ex- 
perience such  intense  cold  during  the  winter  months  that  a 
system  has  been  evolved  for  heating  their  caps,  gloves,  and  boots 
by  electricity  generated  by  the  motor. 


280  ITALY    AT    WAR 

as  possible.  As  soon  as  an  aviator  has  secured 
a  sufficient  number  of  pictures  of  the  locality 
or  object  which  he  has  been  ordered  to  photo- 
graph, he  wings  his  way  back  to  his  own  lines, 
the  plates  are  immediately  developed  at  the 
headquarters  of  the  Section  Photographique 
or  in  a  dark  room  on  wheels.  If  the  first  ex- 
amination of  the  negative  reveals  anything  of 
interest,  it  is  at  once  enlarged,  often  to  eight 
times  the  size  of  the  original.  As  a  result  of 
this  remarkable  system  of  aerial  espionage, 
there  is  nothing  of  importance  which  the  Ger- 
mans can  long  conceal  from  the  Allies.  They 
cannot  extend  their  trench  lines  by  so  much 
as  a  yard,  they  cannot  construct  new  positions, 
they  cannot  mount  a  machine-gun  without  the 
fact  being  registered  by  those  eyes  which, 
from  dawn  to  dark,  peer  down  at  them  from 
the  clouds.  At  all  of  the  divisional  head- 
quarters are  large  plans  of  the  opposing  enemy 
trenches,  which  are  corrected  daily  by  means 
of  these  airplane  photographs  and  by  the  in- 
formation collected  through  the  elaborate  sys- 


S    f* 

K'~*          J3     WS 
'f  2 


d    "g  g'3 

<:  ^s  •- 


Cj=  o 

^  «-•  js 
^  *t3  o 

tl-s 


THE    BELGIANS    ON   THE    YSER      281 

tem  of  espionage  which  the  Allies  maintain  be- 
hind the  German  lines.  To  deceive  the  aerial 
observers,  each  side  resorts  to  all  manner  of 
ingenious  tricks.  To  suggest  an  impending 
retirement,  columns  of  men  are  marched  down 
the  roads  which  lead  to  the  rear;  trenches 
which  are  not  intended  to  be  used  are  dug; 
and  there  are,  of  course,  hundreds  of  dummy 
guns,  some  of  which  actually  fire.  The  officer 
in  command  of  the  Belgian  Photographic  Sec- 
tion had  heard  that  I  was  in  Dunkirk  in  May, 
1915,  when  it  was  shelled  by  a  German  naval 
gun,  at  a  range  of  twenty-three  and  one-half 
miles.*  So  he  gave  me  as  a  souvenir  of  the 
experience  a  photograph,  taken  from  the  air, 
of  the  gun  emplacement  after  it  had  been  dis- 
covered and  bombed  by  the  Allied  aviators, 
and  the  gun  removed  to  a  place  of  safety.  I 
reproduce  the  photograph  herewith.  The 
numerous  white  spots  all  about  the  emplace- 
ment are  the  craters  caused  by  the  bombs 
which  were  rained  upon  it. 

*For  an  account  of  this,  the  longest-range  bombardment  in. 
history,  see  Mr.  Powell's  "Vive  la  France!" 


282  ITALY    AT    WAR 

Another  of  these  monster  guns  was  so  in- 
geniously concealed  in  an  imitation  thicket 
that  for  a  fortnight  or  more  it  defied  the  efforts 
of  scores  of  airmen  to  locate  it.  Though  hun- 
dreds of  airplane  photographs  of  the  country 
behind  the  German  trenches  were  brought  in 
and  minutely  examined,  there  was  nothing 
about  them  to  suggest  the  hiding-place  of  a 
gun  of  so  large  a  caliber  until  some  one  called 
attention  to  the  deep  ruts  left  by  motor-trucks 
which  had  left  the  highway  at  a  certain  point 
and  turned  into  the  innocent-looking  patch  of 
woods.  Why  were  the  wheel-ruts  shown  on 
the  plate  so  black?  Because  the  vehicle  must 
have  sunk  deep  into  the  soft  soil.  Why  did  it 
sink  so  deeply?  Because  it  was  heavily  laden. 
Laden  with  what?  With  large-caliber  shells, 
perhaps.  But  still  it  was  only  a  supposition. 
A  few  days  later,  however,  it  was  noticed  that 
at  a  certain  point  on  the  westward  edge  of 
that  patch  of  woods  there  seemed  to  be  a  slight 
discoloration.  This  discoloration  became  more 
pronounced  on  later  photographs  which  were 


THE    BELGIANS    ON   THE    YSER      283 

brought  in.  Every  one  in  the  Section  Photo- 
graphique  hazarded  a  guess  as  to  its  cause. 
At  length  some  one  suggested  that  it  looked 
as  though  the  leaves  of  the  trees  had  been 
burned.  But  what  burned  them?  There  was 
only  one  answer.  The  fiery  blast  from  a  big 
gun  hidden  amid  those  trees,  of  course!  Act- 
ing on  that  hypothesis,  a  score  of  aviators  were 
sent  out  with  orders  to  pour  upon  the  wood 
a  torrent  of  high  explosive.  The  next  few 
hours  must  have  been  very  uncomfortable  for 
the  German  gun-crew.  In  any  event,  the  big 
piece  was  hauled  out  of  danger  under  cover 
of  darkness  and  the  bombardments  of  the 
towns  behind  the  Belgian  lines  abruptly 
ceased. 

The  Allied  air  service  does  not  confine  its 
observations  to  the  trenches ;  it  keeps  an  ever- 
wakeful  eye  on  all  that  is  in  progress  in  the 
regions  for  many  miles  behind  the  front.  To 
illustrate  how  little  escapes  the  eye  of  the  cam- 
era, the  officer  in  charge  of  the  Photographic 
Section  showed  me  a  series  of  photographs 


284  ITALY    AT    WAR 

which  had  been  taken  of  a  village  at  the  back 
of  Dixmude,  a  few  days  previously,  from  a 
height  of  more  than  a  mile.  The  first  picture 
showed  an  ordinary  Flemish  village  with  its 
gridiron  of  streets  and  buildings.  Cutting 
diagonally  across  the  picture  was  a  straight 
white  streak  which  I  knew  to  be  a  road  lead- 
ing into  the  country.  At  one  point  on  this 
road  were  a  number  of  tiny  squares — evidently 
a  row  of  workmen's  cottages.  The  comman- 
dant handed  me  a  powerful  magnifying-glass. 
"Look  very  closely  on  that  road,"  he  said,  "and 
you  will  see  three  specks."  I  saw  them.  They 
were  about  the  size  of  pin-points. 

"Those  are  three  men,"  he  continued.  "The 
man  at  the  right  lives  in  the  first  of  this  row 
of  cottages.  The  man  in  the  middle  lives  in 
the  fourth  house  in  the  row.  But  the  man  at 
the  left  is  a  farmer,  and  lives  in  this  isolated 
farmhouse  out  here  in  the  country." 

"A  very  clever  guess,"  I  remarked,  scepti- 
cism showing  in  my  tone,  I  fear. 

"We   do   not  guess   in  this   business,"   he 


THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER      285 

replied  reprovingly.  "We  know."  And  he 
handed  me  the  next  photograph,  taken  a  few 
seconds  later.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it; 
the  pin-point  of  a  man  at  the  right  had  left 
his  two  companions  and  was  turning  in  at  the 
first  of  the  row  of  cottages.  Another  photo- 
graph was  produced.  It  showed  the  second 
man  entering  the  gate  of  the  fourth  cottage. 
And  the  final  picture  of  the  series  showed  the 
remaining  speck  plodding  on  alone  toward  his 
home  in  the  country. 

"An  officer  of  some  importance  is  evidently 
making  this  house  his  headquarters,"  remarked 
the  commandant,  indicating  another  tiny  rec- 
tangle. "If  he  wasn't  of  some  importance  he 
wouldn't  have  a  telephone." 

"Good  heavens!"  I  exclaimed.  "You  don't 
mean  to  tell  me  that  you  can  photograph  a 
telephone- wire  from  a  mile  in  the  air?" 

"Not  quite,"  he  admitted,  "but  sometimes, 
if  the  light  happens  to  be  right,  we  can  get 
photographs  of  its  shadow." 

And    sure    enough,    stretching    across    the 


386  ITALY   AT   WAR 

ploughed  fields,  I  could  see,  through  the  glass, 
a  phantom  line,  intersected  at  regular  inter- 
vals by  short  and  somewhat  thicker  lines.  It 
was  the  shadow  of  a  field-telephone  and  its 
poles !  And  the  airplane  from  which  that  pho- 
tograph was  taken  was  so  high  that  it  must 
have  looked  like  a  mere  speck  to  one  on  the 
ground.  There's  war  magic  for  you. 

You  will  ask,  of  course,  why  the  Germans 
don't  maintain  over  the  Allied  lines  a  similar 
system  of  aerial  observation.  They  do — when 
the  Allies  let  them.  But  the  Allies  now  have 
in  commission  on  the  Western  Front  such  an 
enormous  number  of  aircraft — I  think  I  have 
said  elsewhere  the  French  alone  probably  have 
close  to  seven  thousand  machines — and  they 
have  made  such  great  improvements  in  their 
-anti-aircraft  guns  that  to-day  it  is  a  compara- 
tively rare  thing  to  see  a  German  flier  over 
territory  held  by  the  Allies.  The  moment 
that  a  German  flier  takes  the  air,  half  a  dozen 
Allied  airmen  rise  to  meet  and  engage  him, 
and,  in  the  rare  event  of  his  being  able  to  elude 


THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER      287 

them  and  get  over  the  Allied  lines,  the  "Ar- 
chies," as  the  anti-aircraft  guns  are  called  on 
the  British  front,  get  into  noisy  action.  (Their 
name,  it  is  said,  came  from  a  London  music- 
hall  song  which  was  exceedingly  popular  at 
the  beginning  of  the  war.  When  the  shells 
from  the  German  A.  A.  guns  burst  harmlessly 
around  the  British  airmen  they  would  hum 
mockingly  the  concluding  line  of  the  song: 
"Archibald,  certainly  not!")  Unable  to  keep 
their  fliers  in  the  air,  the  Germans  are  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  blind.  They  are  unable 
to  regulate  the  fire  of  their  artillery  or  to  direct 
their  infantry  attacks ;  they  do  not  know  what 
damage  their  shells  are  doing;  and  they  have 
no  means  of  learning  what  is  going  on  behind 
the  enemy's  lines.  It  is  obvious,  therefore, 
that  to  have  and  keep  control  of  the  air  is  a 
very,  very  important  thing. 

No  one  who  has  been  in  Europe  during 
the  past  two  years  can  have  failed  to  notice 
the  unpopularity  of  the  Belgians  among  the 


288  ITALY    AT    WAR 

French  and  English.  This  is  regrettable  but 
true.  Also  it  is  unjust.  When  I  left  Belgium 
in  the  late  autumn  of  1914  the  Belgians  were 
looked  on  as  a  nation  of  heroes.  They  were 
acclaimed  as  the  saviors  of  Europe.  Nothing 
was  too  good  for  them.  The  sight  of  a  Bel- 
gian uniform  in  the  streets  of  London  or  Paris 
was  the  signal  for  a  popular  ovation.  When 
the  red-black-and-yellow  banner  was  displayed 
on  the  stage  of  a  music-hall  the  audience  rose 
en  masse.  The  story  of  the  defense  of  Liege 
sent  a  thrill  of  admiration  round  the  world. 
But  in  the  two  and  a  half  years  that  have 
passed  since  then  there  has  become  noticeable 
among  French  and  English  —  particularly 
among  the  English — a  steadily  growing  dis- 
like for  their  Belgian  allies;  a  dislike  which 
has,  in  certain  quarters,  grown  into  a  thinly 
veiled  contempt.  I  have  repeatedly  heard  it 
asserted  that  the  Belgian  has  been  spoiled  by 
too  much  charity,  that  he  is  lazy  and  ungrate- 
ful and  complaining,  that  he  has  become  a  pro- 


THE    BELGIANS    ON    THE    YSER      289 

fessional  pauper,  that  he  has  been  greatly 
overrated  as  a  fighter,  and  that  he  has  had 
enough  of  the  war  and  is  ready  to  quit. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  is  this:  The  ma- 
jority of  the  Belgians  who  fled  before  the 
advancing  Germans  belonged  to  the  lower 
classes;  they  were  for  the  most  part  unedu- 
cated and  lacking  in  mental  discipline.  Is  it' 
any  wonder,  then,  that  they  gave  way  to  blind 
panic  when  the  stories  of  the  barbarities  prac- 
tised by  the  invaders  reached  their  ears,  or  that 
their  heads  were  turned  by  the  hysterical  en- 
thusiasm, the  lavish  hospitality,  with  which 
they  were  received  in  England?  That  as  a  re- 
sult of  being  thus  lionized,  many  of  these  ig- 
norant and  mercurial  people  became  fault- 
finding and  overbearing,  there  is  no  denying. 
Nor  can  it  be  truthfully  gainsaid  that,  for  a 
year  or  more  after  the  war  began,  there  hung 
about  the  London  restaurants  and  music-halls 
a  number  of  young  Belgians  who  ought  to 
have  been  with  their  army  on  the  firing-line. 


290  *  ITALY    AT    WAR     .       . 

But,  if  my  memory  serves  me  rightly,  I  think 
that  I  saw  quite  a  number  of  English  youths 
doing  the  same  thing.  Every  country  has  its 
slackers,  and  Belgium  is  no  exception.  :  But  to 
attempt  to  belittle  the  glorious  heroism  of  the 
Belgian  nation  because  of  a  few  young  slackers 
or  the  ingratitude  and  ill-manners  of  some  ig- 
norant peasants,  is  an  unworthy  and  despic- 
able thing.  The  assertion  that  the  Belgians 
are  lacking  in  courage  is  as  untruthful  as  it  is 
cruel.  Ask  the  Germans  who  charged  up  the 
fire-swept  slopes  of  Liege — those  of  them  left 
alive — if  the  Belgians  are  cowards.  Ask  those 
who  saw  the  fields  of  Aerschot  and  Vilvorde 
and  Termohde  and  Malines  strewn  with  Bel- 
gian dead.  Go  stand  for  a  few  days — and 
nights — beside  the  Belgians  who  are  holding 
those  mud-filled  trenches  on  the  Yser.  And 
remember  that  the  Belgians  were  fighting 
while  the  English  were  still  only  talking  about 
it.  Nor  forget  that,  had  not  their  heroic  re- 
sistance given  France  a  breathing- spell  in 


THE    BELGIANS    ON   THE   YSER      291 

which  to  complete  her  tardy  mobilization,  the- 
Germans  would  now,  in  all  probability,  be  in 
Paris.  The  truth  is  that  the  civilized  world 
owes  to  the  Belgians  a  debt  which  it  can  never 
repay.  We  of  America  are  honored  to  be 
counted  among  their  Allies. 


Brighton  H*sH"9S 


DUNKU 


Mr1 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

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